“Not today, Daniel.” “Maybe tomorrow?” “We’ll see.”

Tomorrow came and went. So did the next week.

Eventually, I stopped asking. But I didn’t stop hoping.

I used to imagine that one evening Dad would come home from work, put down his keys, pick up the guitar, and begin playing as though the previous months had been a terrible dream.

I pictured myself running into the living room with my toy guitar. I even imagined Mom calling from the kitchen.

That was the part I never told anyone. I knew she wasn’t coming back.

I had seen the coffin.  I had watched relatives cry.

I had stood beside Dad while people I barely knew told me how brave I was being.

But knowing something and accepting it were two very different things.

Sometimes, when I woke up at night, I could still convince myself that the footsteps downstairs belonged to her.

They never did.

By the time I turned ten, Dad had moved the guitar into the hall closet.

I discovered it one Saturday while looking for my winter boots.