Daniel would have turned forty-six on the second Saturday in November.
I woke before dawn.
For years, I had made him pancakes on his birthday.
He preferred them thin, with slices of banana cooked into the batter.
I could make them in my sleep.
This year I stood at the stove wondering whether to keep the tradition.
Then I made scrambled eggs.
I put them on toast.
I ate at the kitchen table with the radio on.
It seemed a small act.
For me, it took effort.
I had begun meeting with a grief counselor named Dr. Elaine Porter.
I first went because I was waking at three every morning and searching old photographs as though they contained answers.
She didn't tell me what to feel about Daniel.
She asked what happened when I tried to remember him.
“I find something kind,” I said during one session, “then I think of the business.”
“And what do you do with the kind memory?”
“I put it away.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm afraid I'm excusing him.”
She waited while I considered my own answer.
A week later, I understood that remembering was not the same as excusing.
On his birthday, I opened a photo album.
There was Daniel at twenty-eight, standing beside our first rented apartment.
There was Daniel holding a shelter puppy that later chewed through his favorite shoes.
There was Daniel asleep in a chair after spending the night at the hospital with my father.
There were also photographs from years when his business arrangement with Emily was already underway.
The deception didn't erase the smiles.
The smiles didn't erase the deception.
I closed the album after an hour.
Then I went to visit Ruth.
She was making bread.
Her kitchen smelled of yeast and cinnamon.
“It's his birthday,” I said.
“I know.”
“I'm angry at him.”
“I know.”
“I miss him.”
“I know that too.”
She handed me a clean towel.
“Could you cover the dough?”
I did.
It was a relief to have an ordinary job.
Later, Ruth's daughter Sophie arrived with her partner.
They were in their twenties and planning a small wedding.
Sophie asked whether I could design a simple illustration for their invitations.
I nearly refused.
Then I asked what she had in mind.
“Something with two trees,” she said. “Not hearts or doves. Just trees.”
“Why trees?”
“Because we met volunteering at the park.”
I smiled.
“Send me photographs of the park.”
Sophie hugged me.
I stood awkwardly for a moment, then hugged her back.
Nobody asked for my permission to be copied.
Nobody offered to surprise me with a company.
A young woman simply asked whether I wanted to draw for her.
I could decide.
That night I returned home and found Daniel's old birthday mug in the cupboard.
It was blue with a chipped handle.
He'd used it every Saturday morning.
I made tea in it.
I sat beside his empty chair.
“I loved you,” I said to the quiet room.
“I didn't know everything about you.”
I let both sentences remain unfinished.
I didn't ask the house to answer.
The next morning, I brought the mug to my drawing table.
I drew it with the chip visible.
Then I turned the page and began sketching two trees.
That evening, I took Daniel's old scarf from the hallway cupboard.
It was gray wool, slightly frayed at one end.
He had forgotten it at a train station once.
A kind stranger returned it through the lost-property desk.
For months afterward, he told the story whenever someone complained that people had become selfish.
I remembered laughing at the repetition.
I remembered liking the way his face softened when he spoke about the stranger.
I sat on the sofa with the scarf across my knees.
I wondered whether the man who felt grateful to a stranger could be the same man who forged my signature.
The answer was yes.
I didn't like that answer.
But I could no longer avoid it.
The next week, I brought the scarf to the grief-counseling appointment.
Dr. Porter asked why.
“Because I don't know what to keep.”
She asked whether I meant objects or memories.
“Both.”
We spoke about the way grief attaches itself to small things.
A shirt can become proof that someone existed.
A chipped cup can feel like the last surviving witness to an ordinary morning.
A recording of a voice can be comforting one day and unbearable the next.
I told her I sometimes feared that putting objects away was a form of betrayal.
“Whom would you be betraying?” she asked.
I thought about it.
“Perhaps the woman I was when he was alive.”
She let that sit between us.
Afterward, I took a walk through the park.
The trees had lost most of their leaves.
A maintenance worker was collecting branches beside a path.
I stopped to watch a small dog dig beneath a hedge.
Its owner called repeatedly.
The dog ignored him.
I smiled.
It reminded me of the stubborn dog Emily and I had tried to train when we were children.
For a moment, I remembered her without remembering the dispute.
Then the dispute came back.
I allowed both thoughts to remain.
At home, I folded the scarf and placed it in a cedar box with a few photographs and letters.
I kept the chipped mug in the kitchen.
I donated several suits Daniel no longer needed.
I didn't consult anyone about which objects I should retain.
I didn't make myself finish in a day.
A few things remained untouched.
That was fine.
My home didn't need to become a museum or a courtroom.
It could be a place where I lived.
I visited the florist where Daniel had bought birthday flowers.
The owner recognized me.
She asked how I was doing.
I gave her a more truthful answer than usual.
“Some days are difficult. Some aren't.”
She nodded.
“Would you like the usual yellow tulips?”
I looked at the buckets beside the counter.
The tulips were beautiful.
Daniel had chosen them because he said they looked cheerful even on a gray day.
I bought five.
Then I added a small bunch of white daisies because I liked them.
At home, I arranged both kinds in the same vase.
I carried it into the studio.
I drew the stems crossing in the water.
Some flowers leaned outward.
Others crowded the center.
The arrangement wasn't symmetrical.
It didn't need to be.
I worked until the daylight changed.
Then I sent a photograph of the sketch to Mara.
She replied that the light through the glass was well observed.
I smiled.
For a long time, I'd hoped Daniel would be the first person to praise every drawing.
Sometimes he had been.
Sometimes he'd been too busy.
Now I was learning that I could enjoy the work even when no one praised it immediately.
I set the finished page on the shelf.
Then I went downstairs to make dinner.
The flowers remained in the studio for a week.
Every morning, I looked at them as I opened the curtains.
They reminded me of Daniel and of a choice I'd made myself.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: A Letter From One of My Readers Helped Me Understand What My Artwork Meant Outside Daniel’s Business
The Last Photograph Emily Asked Me to Take Beside the Water Before She Told Me About Daniel
Part 12 of 16
