Sunflowers, Batter, and a Heavy Heart
The morning of Father’s Day itself began perfectly, if you only looked at it from the outside.
My wife, Claire, left the house early for a photography session she’d booked weeks before. She kissed Lily’s head, kissed my cheek, grabbed her camera bag, and walked out the door just as she always did.
She took the job very seriously.
We picked sunflowers from the backyard because, according to her, “they look like the sun is laughing.” She jammed them into a vase that leaned just a little. We mixed batter. She stirred so enthusiastically that flour dusted the counter, the floor, her hair, my jeans.
She hummed while she worked, completely at peace.
Watching her, you’d never guess that earlier in the week she had unknowingly told me about a visitor whose presence didn’t belong in our house in the way she described. A visitor she thought was just another grown-up “who really likes Mommy.”
I followed her lead—measuring, chopping, joking—while underneath it all, I braced myself for the moment she had mentioned so calmly.
“He comes when it’s almost dark,” she had said. “After we put the flowers on the table.”
So when the sky began to dim and the table was set, I waited.
And right on cue, there was a knock at the door.
