“She was such a wonderful woman.”
“If you need anything…”
I nodded at everyone.
I thanked everyone.
But I barely remembered any faces.
The only faces I truly saw belonged to my children.
Julie, the oldest, tried desperately to act brave even though her red, swollen eyes betrayed every ounce of heartbreak she carried.
Joyce cried openly whenever someone mentioned her mother.
Joan refused to let go of my hand for almost the entire service.
Jeremy, still too young to understand death completely, kept asking when Mommy would wake up.
Each question shattered me all over again.
After the burial, the four of them stayed close to me wherever I walked, like frightened ducklings terrified of losing the only parent they had left.
That first morning after the funeral, I woke before sunrise.
Or maybe I had never actually fallen asleep.
The house was silent.
No coffee brewing.
No music playing softly in the kitchen.
No Sarah humming while making breakfast.
Instead, tiny footsteps padded across the hallway.
Joan climbed carefully onto my lap before I had even finished rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
She wrapped both little arms around my neck.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
She looked up at me with eyes far older than any child should have.
“Are you going to get sick too?”
The question struck harder than anything anyone had said at the funeral.
I swallowed carefully.
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“You won’t leave us?”
“I won’t.”
She studied my face for several seconds before finally resting her head against my chest.
Only then did I hear another pair of footsteps.
Jeremy shuffled into the room dragging the faded blue blanket Sarah had sewn his name onto years earlier.
He didn’t say a word.
He simply climbed onto the couch beside me and leaned his head against my shoulder.
His silence somehow hurt even more than tears.
A few moments later Julie appeared in the doorway.
She hesitated.
“Dad?”
“What is it?”
She twisted the sleeve of her sweatshirt nervously.
“Who’s going to braid Joan’s hair for school now?”
For a second I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was exactly the kind of practical question Sarah always handled without thinking.
I smiled as confidently as I could.
“I’ll learn.”
Julie raised an eyebrow.
“Mom always did the fishtail braid.”
“Then I’ll learn how to do a fishtail.”
“It took her forever to get good.”
“I’ve got time.”
Julie managed the smallest smile.
“I guess we can practice.”
Before I could answer, Joyce wandered sleepily into the kitchen.
“Can we just eat cereal today?”
“Of course.”
“I know Mom always made pancakes on Saturdays…”
Her voice cracked.
“…but I don’t want pancakes.”
Neither did I.
“Cereal sounds perfect.”
I lined four bowls across the counter.
Milk.
Cereal.
Bananas sliced the way Sarah always prepared them.
The children ate quietly.
No one argued over the last spoonful.
No one complained about the cereal getting soggy.
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