Anna handed me her shoes. “Daddy always tied them,” she said quietly.
I knelt in front of her and laced them carefully, double-knotting them the way Samuel always did. “He’d say you look beautiful,” I told her. “And he’d be absolutely right.”
A small smile flickered across her face. It wasn’t as bright as it used to be, but it was there.
She reached for the little badge she had made earlier that day. It was a simple pin with “Daddy’s Girl” written in careful marker. She fastened it over her heart.
Downstairs, I grabbed my coat and purse. The kitchen counter was cluttered with unopened bills and casseroles from well-meaning neighbors we barely knew. I ignored all of it.
At the front door, Anna hesitated.
She glanced back down the hallway for just a second, as if part of her still believed Samuel might appear at the last moment, smiling, ready to scoop her up and carry her out to the car.
He didn’t.
The drive to school was quiet. The radio played one of Samuel’s favorite songs, something soft and familiar. I kept my eyes on the road, blinking back tears as I caught Anna mouthing the lyrics in the reflection of the window.
When we pulled into the parking lot, it was already full.
