“The pancakes.”
“He made them for Miley.”
Caroline sat across from me.
“Then one morning, after he married your mother, you climbed into his lap and fell asleep against his chest. When you woke up, you asked whether he knew how to make pancakes shaped like stars.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“He made them for Miley.”
“You were four.”
Caroline placed the cutter on the table.
“He called me that afternoon. He was crying so hard I could barely understand him. He said he had made the pancakes. He said he had spoken Miley’s name aloud for the first time in years and had not fallen apart.”
My fingers closed around the edge of the table.
“He did not give you something that belonged to his daughter,” Caroline added. “You gave him a way to remember her without believing the memory would kill him.”
“He did not give you something that belonged to his daughter.”
The kitchen blurred through my tears.
“Then what was the lie?”
Caroline looked toward the window.
“After your mother died, Frank packed his truck.”
“He planned to leave?”
“He drove here the night after the funeral. He said your aunt could raise you. He said staying would be selfish.”
“Selfish?”
“He planned to leave?”
“He was terrified.” Caroline’s voice broke. “He told me, ‘Every time Rosalie laughs, I hear Miley. Every time she runs toward the street, I stop breathing. I can’t survive burying another daughter.'”
My heart ached until each breath hurt.
“He promised me he would stay.”
“He made that promise after he came here, dear,” Caroline whispered.
