“No.”
He shook his head.
“Listen to me.”
“You said no.”
“She ignored you.”
“That was her choice.”
“I chose what happened next.”
“Not you.”
Ava’s lip trembled.
“Are you sad?”
Daniel could not lie.
“Yes.”
Her face fell.
He continued.
“But being sad does not mean I made the wrong decision.”
She stared.
Daniel wiped tears from her cheeks.
“I can be sad about losing someone I loved and still know leaving was right.”
Ava whispered:
“Okay.”
Then:
“Will my hair grow back?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Daniel looked at Susan.
Susan wiped her own tears.
“A while.”
Ava looked toward the section Lauren had cut.
“I look stupid.”
Daniel’s throat tightened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He touched only the hair that remained long.
“You look hurt.”
“That is different.”
Ava stared at him.
He had no idea whether an eight-year-old fully understood.
But she nodded.
Then hugged him.
Daniel held her.
Across the parking lot, guests were beginning to emerge.
Phones appeared.
Whispers.
Cars.
Drama turning into story.
Daniel no longer cared.
His brother opened the car door.
“Where are we going?”
Susan asked.
Daniel looked at Ava.
“Home.”
Ava shook her head.
“Not home.”
Daniel frowned.
“Why?”
“Lauren’s stuff is there.”
Of course.
Lauren had moved into Daniel’s house six months earlier.
Her clothes.
Shoes.
Books.
Furniture.
Framed engagement photographs.
Half the primary bedroom belonged to her.
Ava looked frightened at the thought of returning.
Daniel felt another wave of shame.
He had assumed home still felt like his daughter’s safest place.
He had never asked.
“Okay.”
he said.
“Not home.”
Susan lived twenty minutes away.
They went there instead.
Daniel sat in Susan’s kitchen wearing his tuxedo until midnight.
Ava eventually fell asleep upstairs in the room she always used when visiting her grandmother.
Michael went to Daniel’s house and packed enough clothes for several days.
The wedding became a war without Daniel participating.
Lauren called thirty-two times.
Texted forty-eight.
Her mother called seventeen.
Lauren’s father twice.
Three bridesmaids.
The wedding coordinator.
The venue.
A reporter.
Daniel turned his phone off.
At 1:18 in the morning, Susan placed a mug of coffee in front of him.
“You should sleep.”
“I can't.”
She sat.
For years, Daniel had worried Susan secretly blamed him for her daughter’s death.
She never had.
Anna, Daniel’s first wife, had died four years earlier after a sudden brain aneurysm.
Thirty-three years old.
Healthy.
Packing Ava’s lunch one morning.
Gone by the following evening.
There had been no long illness.
No preparation.
No goodbye.
Ava had been four.
For months afterward, she refused to let anyone touch her hair except Daniel because Anna had been the one who brushed and braided it every morning.
Daniel had been terrible at braids.
He watched videos.
Practiced on shoelaces.
Bought the wrong kind of detangler.
Once accidentally tied two strands into a knot so impressive Susan had to cut one tiny piece loose.
Ava cried for forty minutes.
Not because of the hair.
Because Mom never had to cut it.
After that Daniel promised.