“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Can Mommy sing?”
I knew exactly which mommy she meant.
So I played Sarah’s lullaby.
Ari smiled, hugged her stuffed rabbit, and fell asleep before the song ended.
It happened again the next week.
Whenever Claire and Ari shared one of their happiest moments, Ari seemed to search for Sarah afterward.
I assumed it was part of growing up.
Claire worried she had done something wrong.
“I feel like she pulls away whenever we get close, Paxton.”
“She’s adjusting,” I said.
“I hope so.”
Neither of us understood what was really happening.
Last night, I invited my parents and younger sister over for dinner.
It wasn’t really a celebration.
It was a thank-you.
My family had carried us through our hardest years.
Now I wanted them to see that life finally felt hopeful again.
Claire spent the afternoon cooking.
Roasted chicken filled the house with its smell.
Fresh bread cooled on the counter.
Apple pie waited beneath a towel.
Ari was four now, bright, observant, and always listening more closely than adults realized.
She insisted on helping set the table, and Claire quietly fixed every mistake without mentioning it.
When the doorbell rang, Ari ran to answer.
Mom scooped her into a hug.
Dad walked in with flowers.
My sister inhaled dramatically.
“If dinner tastes half as good as this house smells, I’m moving in.”
Laughter filled the room.
My sister convinced Ari that peas were tiny planets, and soon they were launching vegetables across the table with exaggerated “whoosh” sounds.
Claire laughed until tears formed in her eyes.
Watching her with my family, I thought about how naturally she fit into our lives.
Then dessert came.
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