her personality and laughter belonged only to her.
Margot lost her mother when she was two years old and barely remembered her.
That’s why I tried to talk about Phoebe naturally, so that she would remain a real person to my granddaughter, rather than a distant figure in old photographs.
“Your mother loved this.”
“Your mother used to do that too.”
“Your mother once said exactly the same thing.”
Together, Emmett and I tried to give Margot as much of a sense of security as possible.
After Phoebe’s death, he became a widower and the father of a little girl. He was only twenty-eight years old.
Grief could have driven us apart, but the opposite happened. Family
We started having Sunday lunches together. He called me whenever Margot was sick, and I called him whenever something happened that Phoebe certainly would have laughed about.
Emmett wasn’t a perfect father.
I
