I watched my granddaughters through the screen and tried, for the hundredth time that week, to remember what rest used to feel like.
Sophie, five, shrieked as the sprinkler swung her way. Dolly, eight, always the little general, was already directing her sister toward the driest patch of grass.
July had no mercy this year.
« Sophie, stand right there. You’re gonna get the biggest splash, I promise! »
« You said so last time, and I got nothing, » Sophie hollered back, giggling.
Grace stirred against my shoulder, her tiny mouth working through a dream.
Seven months old, and already the spitting image of my late daughter, Abby.
I pressed a kiss onto her fuzzy hair and tried not to let the ache in my chest crack wide open.
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