We made cookies the next Saturday.
Just the two of us, in Dad’s kitchen. Dad took Ethan out to a hardware store so they’d be out of the house. I think it was Dad’s idea. I didn’t ask.
We made chocolate chip with too many chocolate chips. Lily stood on a stepstool at the counter in a tiny apron that said GRANDPA’S LITTLE HELPER. She got flour everywhere, on the counter, on the floor, in her hair, and in mine.
While we waited for the first batch to bake, she sat on the counter swinging her legs and told me about her mom.
“Mommy liked yellow,” she said. “Everything was yellow. Her car was yellow. Our kitchen in Indianapolis was yellow. She had yellow rain boots.”
“That sounds really nice.”
“She made pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse.” Lily looked down at her hands. “Daddy tries, but his look like potatoes.”
I laughed.
“He burns one side, too,” I said. “Every time.”
“Every time!” Lily said, delighted. “You know that?”
“I’ve eaten his pancakes every Sunday for six years.”
Lily looked at me with her big brown eyes.
“Every Sunday?” she said. “Daddy comes here every Saturday. And then on Sunday he leaves really early.” She frowned. “Was that because of you? Because he had to go make you pancakes?”
My chest hurt.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” I said. “I think it was.”
Lily thought about that for a long time.
“So he was making pancakes for both of us,” she said slowly. “Just not together.”
“Just not together,” I said.
The oven timer beeped. Lily jumped off the counter.
“Cookies!”
That night, I finally called my father back.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Claire.”
“Hi, Dad.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. I could hear him breathing.
“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” he said finally. His voice was thick. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I’ve been sitting here every night thinking about your mother,” he said. “What she’d say to me if she knew. She’d have my head on a platter.”
