Monica nodded, pressing a kiss to the child’s hair. “You have to go potty?” she asked, forcing warmth into her voice.
Dena shook her head, curls bouncing. “No. I was looking for you.”
That made Monica’s chest ache as her smile turned real. “Well, you found me.” She carried Dena toward the mirror. “Look at you. Did Daddy do your hair today?”
Dena’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah. But he don’t do it like Mommy.”
Monica’s throat tightened like a fist had closed around it. She swallowed hard and forced the words past the lump in her throat. “No, baby, he doesn’t,” she whispered, smoothing down a stray curl. “But I think he did a pretty good job.”
Dena’s reflection smiled shyly back at her. “You think I look pretty?”
Monica nodded, brushing a tear from her own cheek before it could fall. “Beautiful,” she said softly. “You look just like your mommy.”
The little girl looked down at her dress, a soft white one with tiny pink flowers. “You like my dress?”
“I love it,” Monica said, her voice trembling. “And your mommy would have loved it, too.”
Dena smiled a pure, innocent smile that hit Monica square in the heart, sharp and sweet all at once.
“Come on, Dena.” Aunt Fay reached for her, her soft voice breaking the heavy silence. “Your dad is probably looking everywhere for you.”
Monica hesitated before letting go, her arms tightening for just a moment longer. Dena’s tiny hands clung to her neck. After a long minute, Monica set her down and smoothed the little girl’s dress. She crouched so they were eye level again. “Go find your daddy, okay?” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Dena’s eyes. “I’ll come find you in a little bit.”
Dena nodded solemnly and slipped her hand into Fay’s. Together, they turned toward the door, the little girl’s shiny black shoes clicking softly against the tiled floor.
“You okay?” Fay whispered, looking back, her tone gentle but edged with worry as Monica stood.
“Yeah,” Monica lied, forcing a small, brittle smile. “Is Craig here?”
Fay’s frown deepened. “I haven’t seen him if he is. You think he’ll show?”
Monica’s lips tightened. “Knowing him? Yeah, I do.” She hated how certain she sounded. Their father—Craig, not Dad—he had lost the right to that title the day he’d walked out on them and their mother, who’d been battling cancer. He had left them all for a woman young enough to still get carded at a bar. Okay, she might have been older than that, but not by much. Craig, aka Dad, was a walking bad decision in loafers. Doug, their brother, was the only one who still had any contact with him. Monica hadn’t seen or talked to her father since the day of their mother’s funeral. Monica and Beverly had him and his new wife escorted off the premises when they tried to enter the funeral home. Of course, he had blamed her, saying she was just like her mother, which Monica took as a compliment.
“Did Doug contact him?” Fay asked, her tone clipped as she adjusted Dena’s small hand in hers. Fay’s eyes softened on the child, but hardened again when they lifted to Monica. It wasn’t just dislike. Fay loathed Craig for walking out when her sister needed him most.
“I’m sure he did,” Monica muttered, trailing behind them. The faint hum of low voices filled the funeral home as they stepped back into the room. She scanned the crowd, her heart tugging painfully when she spotted Dena running toward her father, Ken, leaping into his arms.
Her chest ached. Dena didn’t deserve any of this. None of them did.
“Hey.” Doug’s voice cut gently through her thoughts. When she looked up, his eyes were worried. The kind of look only an older brother could give. Deep lines of concern carved across his face, softening the rugged handsomeness he never seemed to notice about himself. He was the middle child—Monica the youngest, Beverly the oldest—but somehow, Doug had always been the glue between them. Protective and quietly funny. He was the one who never asked for much but always gave everything.
She and Beverly used to tease him mercilessly about his love life, warning any girl who dared to show up that she’d have to pass their “sister inspection.” Maybe that’s why he rarely brought anyone home. His voice softened as he reached out, brushing her arm. “You okay?”
Monica swallowed hard and shook her head. “No,” she whispered, leaning into him. The weight of loss, the guilt, and old wounds her father’s shadow always seemed to drag back into the light pressed down until she thought she might crumble.
Doug’s arm came around her, strong and steady. “You don’t need to be...not today.”
Doug had always been her rock and the one person who never made her feel small for breaking. He knew what she had been doing when she was trying to find Beverly, yet he never tried to stop her. He worried, but then again, Monica never told him how deep she had gone to find their sister.
“I miss her, Doug,” Monica said, her voice cracking under the weight she’d been carrying since the phone call that shattered everything.
“I know,” he murmured. “Me too. You did more than anyone to find her, Monica.”
“But I failed.” The words cracked as a tear slipped free, sliding down Monica’s cheek. Her gaze drifted to the framed picture propped on the closed casket...Beverly’s radiant smile was frozen in time. “I failed her.”
“No, you didn’t.” Doug’s arms tightened around her before he pulled back, his jaw set, eyes fierce. “What happened to Beverly was out of your control, Monica. You have got to let that go.”
“What if I can’t?” she whispered, voice breaking.