I even chuckled softly.
Then Anna appeared at the top of the stairs. She was twenty-three now, fully grown, with paint smudged across her fingers and her hair half pinned back. The second I looked at her face, I knew something was wrong. Her skin had gone pale, and the paintbrush in her hand slipped and clattered against the stair.
“Dad,” she said quietly, “maybe… don’t go today.”
“Why, sweetheart?”
Anna glanced away too fast. “Nothing. I just… don’t want you going there today.”
I kissed her forehead gently. “No, honey. Your mother and I need to talk.”
Anna watched me leave like she wanted to stop me but couldn’t force herself to do it.
I drove to the cemetery and, like always, stopped at the same flower shop on the way there. Flowers
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