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shut Megan’s closet door and moved to the center of the room.
    Placing his hands on his hips, he gazed al around at the evidence of her life – the white dresser with her jewelry box on top, the bunny posters on
    the wal , and the basket piled high with stuffed animals.
    “We need to clean this room out.” He wouldn’t look at me. “We can give al her toys and clothes away to the Salvation Army. She would have wanted
    that. She was always generous.”
    I swal owed uneasily and took a few steps closer. “Yes, she was, but I’m not ready for that yet. I like to come in here sometimes. It makes me feel
    close to her.”
    He gave me that look – the one that made me feel foolish and weak. “She’s gone, Sophie. You’re going to have to accept that sooner or later.”
    A flash of anger sparked within me. “It’s only been six months.”
    “Yes. Six excruciating months. You do nothing but sit around and cry, and this room is like a tomb. It’s depressing to come home at night. I think it would be best if we had someone come over and col ect her things. The furniture too.” He took a step closer and spoke in a gentler, more
    encouraging tone. “We could get you a new desk and a computer. Turn this into an office. You should go back to your writing.”
    I frowned. “I can’t write . Not now. I need time to grieve.”
    “But you can’t just wal ow in it, Sophie. What you need to do is try harder to get over it. We both need to get on with our lives.”
    I shook my head. “No! Maybe you’re ready to move on, but I’m not. I’m stil in agony. I can’t just forget about her, or pretend she never existed.”
    “That’s not what I’m saying.”
    “Then what are you saying, exactly?”
    He turned his gaze to the window. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
    “Just forget it,” he said as he brushed by me, heading for the door. “I need to get back to work. I’l probably be late getting home. Why don’t you get a movie for yourself.”
    As I watched him leave, the floor seemed to shift under my feet. I felt like I was standing in a teetering rowboat, struggling to keep my balance while the waves splashed against my hul .
    o0o
    My father cal ed that night. It was the first time he had cal ed since the funeral.
    His lifelong remoteness hit me particularly hard after my argument with Michael. I began to feel as if I would always be disappointed by the men in
    my life. My husband didn’t seem to understand a single thing I was feeling, and quite frankly, I didn’t understand him either. How could he be ready
    to move on? Had he not loved Megan as much as I did? Or was he burying himself in denial? If you push it away, it won’t hurt you . Is that what he thought?
    “Hi Dad,” I said, as I sat down at the kitchen table and cupped my forehead in a hand. “How are you?”
    And what do you want? What could you possibly say to me now, after a lifetime of disapproval and indifference? I suppose, like Michael, you’re
    going to tell me to stop crying and get over it.
    “I’m fine,” he replied. “How are things with you?”
    Great. Just what I needed. Light conversation.
    I checked my watch and wondered how long this would take.
    “I’ve been better.” My voice broke on the last word, however, and hot tears flooded my eyes. I slapped my hand over my mouth in a desperate
    attempt to crush the threat of a complete emotional breakdown. I couldn’t do that in front of my father. Not him.
    “Sounds like you’re having a rough day.”
    I swal owed over the urge to let out a gut-wrenching sob. “Yeah.”
    I wiped at the tears, stood up, and fil ed the kettle at the sink while I clenched the phone between my shoulder and ear.
    “We al loved Megan,” he softly said. “She was a special girl. I’m so sorry, Sophie.”
    That was it. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I shut off the water, set the kettle down on the granite countertop and wept into the phone.
    “Thank you, Daddy. That means a lot to