Close family.
Ari scattered flower petals everywhere except the aisle.
Everyone laughed.
Afterward, Claire settled naturally into our home.
She packed lunches.
She danced while making pancakes.
She convinced Ari that broccoli was made of “tiny superhero trees.”
The house became noisy again.
Bright.
Alive.
My mother noticed it too.
During one visit, she whispered:
“I had forgotten what laughter sounded like in this house.”
But something strange began happening.
Whenever Claire and Ari had an especially happy day together, Ari seemed withdrawn afterward.
If Claire braided her hair, Ari would stand quietly in front of Sarah’s photograph.
If Claire read her three bedtime stories and made her laugh, Ari would later ask:
“Daddy, can Mommy sing?”
I knew she meant Sarah.
So I would play the lullaby.
Claire noticed too.
One night she said:
“I think she pulls away whenever we get close.”
“She’s adjusting.”
“What if I’m doing something wrong?”
“You’re not.”
I believed that.
What neither of us understood was that Ari was fighting a battle inside her tiny heart.
Then came our first big family dinner after the wedding.
My parents came.
My younger sister came.
Claire spent hours cooking roasted chicken, bread, vegetables, and apple pie.
Ari helped set the table.
She was four now.
Bright.
Curious.
And far more aware than we gave her credit for.
Dinner was full of laughter.
At one point, my sister convinced Ari that peas were planets and began launching them across her plate while making rocket noises.
Claire laughed until tears appeared in her eyes.
I sat there watching them and thought:
