Lily was two years old that summer, still young enough to sleep with one palm tucked under her cheek and old enough to believe every bright plastic thing in the world had been placed there for her to admire.
She had soft curls that sprang back when I brushed them, round cheeks that flushed when she laughed, and a habit of saying “mine?” in the gentlest possible voice whenever curiosity got ahead of her manners.
That Saturday was supposed to be simple.
A cookout at Ethan’s parents’ house.
A few hours in the backyard.
Hot dogs, corn, pasta salad, paper plates, the kind of family afternoon that should have ended with sticky fingers and a tired toddler asleep before we hit the second stoplight.
Ethan had been called into an unexpected shift that morning, and I remember standing in our kitchen with the fridge humming behind me while he kissed Lily on the top of her head and told me he would meet us later.
He told me to go ahead, and he promised he would get there as soon as he could.