I was wrong.
Five years earlier, I had stood in a cemetery holding my nine-year-old daughter’s hand, promising her we would be okay. Since then, it had been just the two of us — me and Juniper — learning how to breathe through the quiet.
Junie was watchful. Not rude. Not dramatic. Just observant in a way that made adults uncomfortable. She noticed tone shifts. Forced smiles. The things people didn’t say.
When Maribel came into our lives, she made everything feel lighter. She laughed easily. She cooked for us. She kissed my cheek in the kitchen and called Junie “sweet pea” like it was affectionate.People told me I looked happier.
I wanted that to be true.
Juniper didn’t warm up the way everyone said she would. She didn’t protest. She didn’t argue. She just watched.
“She’s protective,” Maribel would say with a smile. “It’s kind of cute.”
Junie never laughed at that.
The wedding day arrived bright and loud. White chairs lined our backyard. String lights hung between trees. Flowers filled every corner.
Guests hugged me. “She would’ve wanted this,” they said about my late wife, and I nodded because it was easier than explaining grief doesn’t disappear — it rearranges itself.
Juniper wore a pale floral dress and a serious expression. She sat in the front row during photos, then drifted off when the noise grew too much.
