Not because she made inspirational speeches.
She was five.
She needed breakfast.
She needed to go to school.
She woke up crying at three in the morning because she had dreamed about her sister.
She needed a mother.
So I got up.
Every day.
And my father made that possible.
Dad’s name is Daniel.
He taught high school mathematics for thirty-five years, which I have always considered evidence of almost unreasonable optimism.
He was never a man who spoke more than necessary.
But when something needed to be said, he said it.
Before Emily died, he adored both girls.
Afterward, losing Emily nearly destroyed him too.
But instead of retreating, he turned everything he had left toward Lily and me.
He picked her up from school.
He sat with her when I worked late.
He helped with science projects.
He taught her to drive.
He showed up to recitals.
