Then one afternoon when Sophie was five, she came running out of kindergarten with a construction-paper turkey in her hand and shouted,
“Dad! Look!”
She froze.
I froze.
Her teacher smiled.
Sophie’s eyes became enormous.
“I mean—”
I crouched in front of her.
“What?”
She looked embarrassed.
“Uncle Mason.”
I swallowed.
“You can call me whatever feels right, kiddo.”
She stared at me.
Then she whispered,
“Can I call you Dad?”
I looked over at Lily and Brooke.
They were both listening.
Brooke shrugged.
“I already do at school.”
Lily nodded.
“Me too.”
I laughed.
Then I cried in the school parking lot.
A lot.
The girls pretended not to notice.
Eric was not completely gone.
Sometimes I wished he had been.
For years, there were random signs of him.
A Christmas card from Nevada.
A birthday card mailed from Texas.
