It happened fast—far too fast for either of us to understand what was happening. One moment we were arguing over whether the kitchen cabinets should be painted white or blue. Six months later, I was sitting beside a hospital bed at two in the morning, listening to machines beep while I held her hand and begged the universe for more time.

Time didn’t come.

After the funeral, the house felt like a museum of memories. Her coffee mug on the counter. The half-finished grocery list on the fridge. The way the kitchen still smelled faintly like the vanilla candles she loved. Since Jenna died, it’s been just the two of us.

I work in HVAC repair. It keeps the lights on most months, but just barely. Some weeks I take double shifts, trying not to think about the stack of envelopes waiting on the kitchen table.

Bills are like whack-a-mole.

One afternoon she burst through the front door after school, her backpack bouncing behind her.

“Daddy!” she yelled. “Guess what!”

I had just walked in from a job and was halfway through taking off my boots.

“What’s up?”

“Kindergarten graduation is next Friday! We have to dress fancy!” she said, almost vibrating with excitement. Then her voice softened. “Everyone’s getting new dresses.”