Whitney hooked her arm around the back of the couch and scooted upward, staring expectantly at the door as Natalie answered it.

She tried to rein in her disappointment when Bruce stood in the doorway. He held a duffel bag in one hand and a pillow in the other. He wore a T-shirt with two handprints on it that read Best Dad Hands Down, sweatpants, flip-flops and a baseball hat that fit a little too snuggly on his head. To Whitney, Bruce embodied the word dad. He had the “dad look” and he never ran out of “dad jokes.” It was almost impossible for her to picture him being anything other than a dad, even though Natalie assured Whitney that he’d been quite the catch when they’d met.

Natalie gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He stood awkwardly, his gaze sliding toward Whitney.

She understood. It was hard to know how to behave during your own crisis, let alone in someone else’s. At funerals, Whitney never knew what to do. She’d stand there awkwardly as if her arms were too large for her body, mumbling apologies and empty platitudes.

“Come on in, Bruce.” Standing, Whitney waved him over, hoping to ease some of his discomfort.

He stepped inside, dropping the duffel bag on the ground and handing Natalie the pillow. Then he took a few steps forward and pulled Whitney into one of his big bear hugs. “You hangin’ in there, kiddo?”

His fatherly concern broke her. Tears stung her eyes and her throat burned. Blinking and breathing hard, she pulled back and wiped her hand down her face.

“I...um...I just need...” Whitney pointed down the hall. “A...a few minutes.”

“Okay, hon, we’ll be right here,” Natalie said sweetly.

Making her way down the hallway, she could feel their eyes on her, skating over her back, boring a hole in her head. She crumbled like a Jenga tower after pulling on the wrong block. The sobs in her ears were as loud as the crash the blocks made when they hit the table. She wasn’t used to all of this concern. Accusations she was used to. Distrust. Suspicion. Reprimands. Those were things she could handle. This was too much.

Smothering her mouth with her hand, she muffled the sobs against her palm. When she reached her room, she closed the door firmly behind her.

“Mommy, don’t be sad.” Her big eyes stared up at Whitney unblinking. “Here. Do you need a Band-Aid? Will that make it better?” Reaching up, Amelia thrust a Band-Aid into Whitney’s palm. It was one of her Disney princess ones. Cinderella.

Whitney brushed a tear off her cheek and sniffed. “A Band-Aid won’t fix it this time, my sweet girl.”

“It’s about Daddy, huh?”

Biting her lip, she nodded.

“We’re not gonna live with him anymore, are we?”