“Didn’t have the bandwidth. And I wasn’t bringing just anyone into their lives.”
That phrase—just anyone—made me feel honored. But maybe I should have been suspicious.
After nearly two years of dating, he proposed in the backyard. It wasn’t grand, but it was real.
“I can’t promise perfect,” he said, holding out a small box. “But I can promise steady.”
“Steady is exactly what I want,” I told him.
The girls tackled me in a hug before I could even slip on the ring. Later that night, though, I confessed my worry: “I don’t want to feel like I’m just filling a vacancy.”
“You aren’t a replacement, Anna,” he said firmly. “We aren’t waiting for a ghost. You’re building something new with us.”
I wanted to believe that. Most days, I did.
We married in a small ceremony, the girls beaming beside us. For the first time, the shadow of the woman who left seemed to fade.
But then came the school forms. At the kitchen table, the line for “Mother” sat empty. One of the girls nudged the paper toward me.
“Should we put you there?”
Daniel watched me carefully. “Only if you’re comfortable with it.”
“I don’t want to usurp someone’s place,” I said.
“There isn’t someone in that place,” the girl replied bluntly. And she was right.
A week after moving in, I tackled the garage. Among the graveyard of old furniture, I dragged out a cobweb-draped couch. Between its cushions was a yellowed envelope—clean, dust-free, untouched by webs.
