Clinton went to work, attended meetings, answered emails, came home, made dinner for Linda, read her bedtime stories, and collapsed into a sleep that brought no rest. The office buzzed with talk of Cara's departure: farewell plans, speculation about her replacement, gossip about why someone at the peak of her career would suddenly accept a position overseas. Clinton said nothing. He kept his head down and counted the hours until she would be gone. On Thursday evening, Linda found him sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring at nothing.
Daddy, why are you sad? Clinton looked at his daughter, at her concerned brown eyes, so much like Lisa's, and felt his carefully constructed walls begin to crumble. I'm not sad, sweetheart, just tired. Linda climbed onto the chair beside him. You're lying.
You always look at the wall when you're lying. Despite everything, Clinton almost smiled. When did you get so smart? Mommy used to say, "I was smart like you." Linda reached out and took his hand in her small fingers.
Is it because of Cara? Because she's leaving? The sound of her name hit Clinton like a blow to the chest. How do you know about that? I heard you talking on the phone and you've been sad ever since.
Linda squeezed his hand. Do you love her daddy? Clinton wanted to deny it to protect his daughter from the complications of adult emotions, to maintain the simple world where daddy was strong and steady and never uncertain. But Linda was watching him with that penetrating gaze, and he found he couldn't lie to her. "I think I might."
Linda nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something she had already known. "Then why are you letting her go?" "It's complicated, sweetheart. There are things you don't understand. Like what?
Clinton searched for words that would make sense to a seven-year-old. Like, I'm scared. I loved your mommy very much. And when she died, it hurt so bad. I thought I would never feel anything again.
And now I'm feeling things for Cara. And I'm scared that if I let myself love her, I might lose her, too. And I don't know if I can survive that again. Linda was quiet for a long moment. Then she said something that stopped Clinton's heart.
Daddy, do you remember what you told me when mommy died? You said that being sad about losing someone means you were lucky enough to love them. And that it's better to love and be sad than to never love at all. Clinton stared at his daughter. He remembered saying those words, remembered holding her tiny body as she sobbed for her mother, remembered believing them even as his own heart shattered.
"You taught me that," Linda continued. "But now you're not doing it yourself. You're too scared to love Cara because you might lose her. But Daddy, what if you don't lose her? What if you just let her go because you're scared and then you're sad anyway, but you didn't even get to love her first?"
The logic was so simple, so pure that Clinton felt something break open inside him. His 7-year-old daughter had just articulated what he had been unable to face for 3 years that his fear of loss had become its own prison, keeping him from the very thing that could set him free. "When did you become so wise?" he whispered. Linda smiled, showing the gap where her front tooth used to be. "I learned it from you."
That night, after Linda fell asleep, Clinton sat in the darkness of his bedroom and pulled out the photo of Lisa from his nightstand drawer. For a long time, he just looked at her face, the smile that had greeted him every morning, the eyes that had seen him at his worst, and loved him anyway. "I need to talk to you," he said softly. "I know you can't answer, but I need to say this out loud." The house was silent.
Outside, a car passed on the street, its headlights briefly illuminating the curtains before fading away. I think I'm falling in love with someone, and I feel like I'm betraying you by even admitting that. For 3 years, I've been holding on to you so tightly that I forgot how to hold on to anything else. I've been so afraid of dishonoring your memory that I've been teaching our daughter that love is something to fear." Clinton's voice cracked.
"But you wouldn't want that, would you? I remember what you said to me near the end when we didn't know the end was coming. You said if anything ever happened to you, you didn't want Linda growing up in a house without laughter, without love. He touched the photo gently. I've been so focused on not replacing you that I forgot you can't replace someone you truly loved.
Cara isn't a replacement for you. She's something new, something I never expected. And I think maybe that's okay. The photograph offered no response, but Clinton felt something shift inside him. A releasing of chains he hadn't even known he was carrying.
"I'm going to try," he said. "I'm going to try to let myself love again." "I hope that's what you would have wanted." He placed the photo back in the drawer and closed it gently. Then he looked at his phone.
Cara's flight was scheduled for 11:00 the next morning. He had less than 12 hours. Clinton barely slept. At 6:00 in the morning, he woke Linda and explained that they were going on an adventure. "Where are we going?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.
"To the airport. Cara's leaving today, and I need to tell her something important before she goes." Linda's face lit up. "Are you going to tell her you love her?" Clinton pulled his daughter into a hug.
"Yes, sweetheart. I'm going to try." The drive to the airport felt endless. Traffic was heavier than usual, and Clinton found himself gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Beside him, Linda clutched a folded piece of paper in her lap, a drawing she had insisted on bringing.