Whenever I became quiet, Vanessa accused me of bringing down the mood.
My mother would touch my wrist and tell me Daniel would not want me to be sad forever.
My father usually changed the subject before anyone had to sit with the reality of what Lily and I had lost.
So I stopped attending most family celebrations.
It was easier to stay home than to perform recovery for people who treated grief like bad manners.
Lily was four when her father died.
She remembered the sound of his truck pulling into the driveway and the way he carried her on his shoulders when her legs became tired.
She remembered that he always cut her pancakes into crooked stars.
She did not understand construction accidents, insurance paperwork, or why adults lowered their voices when they said his name.
She only understood that he had left for work one morning and never walked through our front door again.
For two years, I had been the person who checked every lock, packed every lunch, paid every bill, and sat beside her bed whenever a bad dream woke her.
That was why agreeing to the vacation felt like a risk.
My mother promised there would be no pressure and no family arguments.
She said Lily deserved time with her cousins and that the ocean might be good for both of us.