Ari continued.
“When people say Claire is my new mommy…”
She began crying.
“…then my first Mommy goes away forever.”
No one moved.
Then she looked at Claire.
“In stories, monsters make people disappear.”
The word no longer sounded cruel.
It sounded terrified.
And suddenly every strange moment made sense.
Ari standing in front of Sarah’s photographs.
Asking for the lullaby after happy days.
Pulling away whenever she became too comfortable with Claire.
She wasn’t rejecting Claire.
She was terrified that loving her was erasing Sarah.
I closed my eyes.
And then another realization hit me.
This was partly my fault.
For years, whenever Ari asked about Sarah, I gave short answers.
Whenever remembering hurt too much, I changed the subject.
Sometimes I refused to play the lullaby because hearing Sarah’s voice tore me apart.
I thought I was protecting myself.
Maybe even protecting Ari.
Instead, I had accidentally taught my daughter that memories could disappear if we didn’t guard them closely enough.
Claire quietly stood.
For one awful moment, I thought she was leaving.
Instead, she walked into the living room.
She returned carrying Sarah’s framed photograph.
Then she placed it carefully on the empty chair beside Ari.
“Your mommy gets a seat too,” Claire said.
Ari stared at her.
Claire pulled her own chair slightly backward.
“I don’t want anyone disappearing.”
She touched the frame gently.
“I never wanted your mommy’s place.”
Then she looked directly at Ari.
“Can you tell me something about her?”
Ari lowered her head.
“I don’t know enough.”
Those four words almost destroyed me.
“I do,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
