I usually watched the two of them more than I watched the television.
Then, one ordinary weekday morning, Gavin kissed us goodbye and left for work.
By late afternoon, two police officers were standing at my door.
For months afterward, even turning on a football game felt wrong.
Maisie stopped wearing her father’s jersey. She didn’t ask about scores and no longer argued when Sundays passed without the
television being switched to sports.
I didn’t force her.
Grief had already taken enough choices away from her.
About seven months after Gavin died, she appeared beside me while I was making dinner and quietly asked when his team was playing.
I almost dropped the spoon in my hand.
That Sunday, she wore Gavin’s jersey even though it hung almost to her knees.
