The words stayed with me.
Because sometimes I did feel something when Kelly smiled.
Something I'd believed had disappeared with Hannah.
But I was also painfully aware of the difference between our ages.
Nineteen years.
The fact that I had a daughter.
The fact that Kelly had only recently begun rebuilding her adult life after an injury.
And the fact that she'd first come to me during a vulnerable moment.
I wasn't going to turn her trust into an invitation she hadn't given.
So I kept my distance.
Not coldly.
Not rudely.
I simply made certain our friendship remained clear.
Kelly seemed to notice.
One evening, after Ava had gone to bed, she found me standing in the kitchen staring at an unfinished cup of coffee.
“You do that a lot.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Look as though you're arguing with somebody who isn't in the room.”
I laughed.
“Occupational hazard.”
She smiled.
“Are you winning?”
“Rarely.”
She leaned against the counter.
For a moment, she studied me.
Then asked, “Was Hannah funny?”
The question caught me off guard.
I glanced toward the framed photograph on the shelf.
My wife stood beside Ava at a mountain lake, laughing as our daughter tried to hold an enormous inflatable duck.
“Very.”
Kelly smiled.
“What was she like?”
For a moment, I didn't answer.
Most people avoided asking about Hannah.
They worried I'd become upset.
Or that speaking her name would somehow reopen a wound that ought to have healed.
But the wound had never closed.
And I liked remembering her.
“She was the kind of woman who could make a grocery-store trip feel like an adventure.”
Kelly listened.
“She loved terrible music. Bought too many houseplants. And insisted she could fix anything if I gave her enough duct tape.”
Kelly laughed softly.
I smiled.
“She once repaired the kitchen drawer with tape because she said I was taking too long to replace the runner.”
“Did it work?”
“For nine months.”
Kelly laughed harder.
I found myself laughing too.
Then I looked toward the photograph.
The laughter faded.
“She was a good mother.”
Kelly's expression softened.
“I can tell.”
I looked up.
“How?”
She glanced toward the hall where Ava slept.
“Because Ava talks about her like she was magic.”
My throat tightened.
“She doesn't remember everything.”
Kelly nodded.
“But she remembers how she felt.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.