I thought the hardest part of my wedding day would be getting through it without thinking about my late wife. Then, three minutes before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, I realized my nine-year-old daughter wasn’t in her seat. When I found her, she was sitting on the bathroom floor with a secret she’d been told not to share.
I was 36 and tired to my very core. Five years earlier, I’d buried my wife, and after that it was just me and my daughter, Juniper, learning how to be a family of two.
Junie was nine, quiet like she was saving her words for emergencies. She noticed everything, especially the things adults tried to hide behind cheerful faces, but that didn’t fool my daughter.
I didn’t think I’d ever love again. Then Maribel showed up and made the world feel less sharp around the edges.
Maribel laughed easily and filled rooms without even trying. She cooked for us, kissed my cheek in the kitchen, and called Juniper “sweet pea” like it was a spell. People told me I looked lighter, and I wanted that to be true.
Juniper didn’t warm up the way everyone promised. She wasn’t rude, just watchful, as if she were waiting for a trick. When Maribel leaned in too close, Junie’s shoulders went stiff.
“Give it time,” I told myself. “She’s adjusting.” Maribel always nodded in agreement.
“Junie’s protective,” Maribel said once, smiling. “It’s kind of cute.”
Juniper didn’t laugh. She stared at Maribel’s shoes intensely.
The wedding day arrived bright and loud. White chairs lined our backyard, string lights hung between trees, and flowers sat on every other seat. Guests hugged me and said, “She would’ve wanted this,” and I swallowed my sadness.
My brother clapped my shoulder. “You’re doing it, man,” he said. “New chapter.”
“Yeah,” I said. “New chapter.”
Juniper wore a pale floral dress and the serious face she saved for dentist appointments. She sat in the front row during photos, then drifted away when adults got noisy. I assumed she’d be near the kitchen, stealing crackers.
Three minutes before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, her seat was empty. Not “bathroom break” empty, but “gone” empty. My chest tightened like a fist closed around it.
I turned to my brother. “Have you seen Junie?”
He frowned. “She was right there.”
I checked the yard first. “Junie?” I called, trying to keep it light. The processional music played, cheerful enough to make me angry.
The story doesn’t end here – it continues on the next page.
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