At first she stayed beside me. We stood near the bleachers and watched fathers lift daughters into spinning circles. One man in a Navy dress uniform danced so badly his daughter laughed so hard she had to cling to his shoulders to stay upright. Another bent low to let his little girl stand on his shoes while she conducted the song with one finger like a queen. Everywhere I looked, men were trying—awkwardly, beautifully, imperfectly. There is something almost unbearable about joy when the specific shape of your own loss is standing in the middle of it.
Emma’s hand in mine felt damp.
“Do you want punch?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Do you want to dance with me?”
She hesitated. “Maybe later.”
Then, after another song, she let go of my hand.
“I’m going to stand over there,” she said, pointing toward the far corner near the stacked blue gym mats. “Just in case he comes in and can’t find me.”
I looked where she was pointing. From there she would have a clear view of the main doors.
My first instinct was no. No, because hope was about to hurt her again. No, because I wanted to pull her against me and carry her straight back to the car. No, because I was not strong enough to watch this and remain human.
But she was seven, not stupid. She knew the difference between a fantasy and a possibility. She was not waiting because she believed literally, not entirely. She was waiting because grief had taught her to look at doors.
So I crouched down, smoothed a hand over her hair, and said, “I’ll be right here.”
She nodded and walked away, the lavender layers of her dress whispering around her knees.
She stood in the corner with her hands folded over the front of her skirt and scanned the room. Every time the doors opened, her whole body changed. Her shoulders straightened. Her chin lifted. Something fragile and luminous moved through her face. Then another father would walk in, laughing into his phone, or holding a corsage box, or carrying a daughter who’d fallen asleep early, and Emma’s body would soften again, not dramatically, just a little, as if disappointment had become something she knew how to do quietly.