By sunset, half the beach was searching.
By midnight, the police were calling it a possible drowning. They combed those waters for four days. They never found her body, and the world eventually decided that meant she was gone.
I could have walked away. I was 29. No ring on my finger. No legal ties to those children.
They never found her body.
People expected me to grieve quietly for a few weeks and then get on with my life. Some of them even told me so.
But I looked at six kids sitting in a church pew at Claire’s memorial, the youngest one asking me in a whisper where her mommy went, and I made a decision I’ve never once regretted.
I stayed.
I sold my truck to cover the first three months of bills. I picked up extra shifts and learned how to pack six different lunches at six in the morning. I learned how to braid hair from a YouTube video. I signed permission slips, sat through nightmares, and drove to emergency rooms for stitches and fevers at hours when the rest of the world was asleep.
I made a decision I’ve never once regretted.
Noah never made it easy. He tested every boundary I had.
