She knew he cried during sentimental movies when he thought nobody noticed.
She knew he stopped to help strangers with broken-down cars.
And she knew how easily he could blame himself for things beyond his control.
He looked toward her.
“I'll try.”
She smiled.
“That's all I'm asking.”
She died several weeks later.
Their daughter was four.
For months afterward, Marcus moved through life as though he were walking underwater.
He woke early.
Prepared breakfast.
Took his daughter to preschool.
Worked.
Collected her in the afternoon.
Cooked dinner.
Read bedtime stories.
And sat beside her bed until she fell asleep.
Then he walked into the empty kitchen.
Sometimes he washed dishes that were already clean.
Sometimes he repaired things that didn't need repairing.
And sometimes he stood beside the refrigerator, staring at a photograph of his wife holding their newborn daughter.
He missed her voice.
He missed the way she sang while cooking.
He missed the ordinary conversations they'd shared about grocery lists, school events, and weekend plans.
He missed the certainty that someone would be there when he came home.
But every morning, his daughter needed him.
So he kept going.
His own mother helped.
She lived twenty minutes away and visited frequently.
She prepared meals when he became overwhelmed.
She helped with school pickup.
She attended medical appointments.
And she reminded Marcus that accepting help did not make him less capable as a father.
One afternoon, about six months after his wife's death, Marcus returned from work to find his daughter sitting at the kitchen table beside her grandmother.
The little girl was drawing.
Pink crayons covered the paper.
He leaned over her shoulder.
“What are you making, princess?”
She looked up.
“Our family.”
Marcus smiled.
He studied the drawing.
There was a little girl.
A tall man.
And a woman with long hair standing beneath a bright yellow sun.
His chest tightened.
“That's beautiful.”
His daughter pointed toward the woman.
“Mommy's in the sunshine.”
Marcus swallowed.
Then nodded.
“She is.”
The little girl looked toward him.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Can Mommy still see my birthday?”
He froze.
His mother looked down.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.