Chapter 8 - EMMA PLANTED THE FIRST NEW SUNFLOWER, THEN ASKED ME WHY I NEVER SMILED
Emma arrived carrying a plastic watering can.
Yellow.
Of course.
Something about dead girls and yellow things followed me.
Claire’s rain boots had been yellow.
Elena’s sunflowers.
Now Emma’s watering can.
Sofia wore jeans and a brown coat.
No uniform.
That mattered.
I met them at front gate myself.
Emma looked up.
“Mr. Moretti.”
“Yes?”
“Mommy says I’m not allowed to ask you for a pony.”
Sofia closed eyes.
“I said no such thing.”
Emma looked betrayed.
“You said don’t ask rich people for stuff.”
I almost laughed.
Sofia rubbed forehead.
“Different sentence.”
I crouched.
“For record, no pony.”
Emma nodded seriously.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Can I ask for dirt?”
That I could provide.
The garden had been cleared only of debris.
I had not replanted.
A landscaper prepared soil after evidence release, but I told him to stop there.
This day did not belong to professionals.
Emma walked toward center with packet of sunflower seeds.
Sofia handed one to me.
“You want?”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t know.”
She shrugged.
“Then don’t.”
Again.
No pressure.
Emma dug with plastic shovel.
Terribly.
I eventually sat beside her.
“Too deep.”
“How know?”
“My wife grew these.”
“Your heaven wife?”
My throat closed.
“Yes.”
“What name?”
“Elena.”
Emma frowned.
“Like you said before.”
“Yes.”
“And your little girl?”
“Claire.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
Emma was nearly five now.
The comparison hurt enough to make me dizzy.
“Did she like sunflowers?”
“She liked hiding things underneath them.”
Emma’s eyes widened.
“Treasure?”
“Mostly plastic dinosaurs.”
She laughed.
The sound moved through garden.
For one second, it felt wrong.
Then I remembered Claire laughing here.
Maybe grief had lied when it told me silence was respect.
Emma planted seed.
Covered.
Poured half watering can.
Probably too much.
I said nothing.
Then she looked at me.
“Why don’t you smile?”
Sofia inhaled sharply.
“Emma.”
“What?”
Children.
I answered.
“I smile sometimes.”
“No.”
She studied me.
“You do mouth.”
“What does that mean?”
She demonstrated a polite half-smile.
Apparently insulting.
Sofia turned away to hide laughter.
Emma continued:
“Mommy smiles now.”
Sofia’s face changed.
I looked at her.
Emma didn’t notice.
“She didn’t before.”
she said.
“Daddy picture helped.”
“And food.”
My chest tightened.
“Food?”
“Now we have enough.”
Sofia whispered:
“Emma.”
“What?”
No shame.
But Sofia had tears in eyes.
Emma continued:
“Mommy says we’re not rich.”
I glanced at Sofia.
She said:
“We’re not.”
“But not scared every Friday.”
Payday.
Rent.
Bills.
Fear has calendars.
Emma looked at me.
“Are you still sad?”
“Yes.”
“Because Claire?”
“Yes.”
“And Elena?”
“Yes.”
“Does food help?”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Full sound.
Emma’s eyes widened.
“There.”
“What?”
“You smiled.”
Sofia laughed too.
That afternoon we ate lunch in kitchen, not formal dining room.
Mrs. Bell cried when she saw Emma.
Then immediately fed her too much.
Emma put half a roll into pocket.
Everyone froze.
Old habit.
Sofia saw.
“Sweetheart.”
Emma looked guilty.
“You can eat more later.”
“I know.”
“Then why pocket?”
Emma shrugged.
“For just in case.”
Sofia’s face crumpled.
I looked away.
Hunger leaves ghosts even after pantry fills.
No one scolded.
Mrs. Bell quietly gave her a small reusable snack bag.
“If you want something for later, use this.”
Not shame.
Structure.
Emma smiled.
“Thank you.”
After lunch she asked to see Claire’s room.
My whole body locked.
Sofia noticed.
“You can say no.”
I looked toward staircase.
Three years.
Nothing moved.
A grave I refused to close.
Emma said:
“I don’t have to.”
That made decision easier.
“Come.”
I opened room.
Dust-free.
Untouched.
Pink cardigan.
Book.
Seven stars.
Yellow boots.
Emma walked slowly.
She did not touch.
Sofia stayed at doorway.
I sat on bed.
For first time since funeral.
My lungs forgot how to work.
Emma pointed at stars.
“Crooked.”
I laughed through tears.
“Claire put them up.”
“She bad at stars.”
“Very.”
Then Emma looked at boots.
“Too small for me.”
Probably.
I had never thought of them as a size.
Only Claire.
Objects frozen because the person who used them disappeared.
Emma asked:
“Can kids in heaven grow?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know.”
She considered.
Then:
“Daddy probably knows now.”
Gabriel.
Maybe.
I cried quietly.
Emma walked over.
Did not hug.
She placed Daisy beside me.
“She gets scared when people cry.”
I looked at mismatched doll.
“She’s had a difficult life.”
Emma nodded.
“So did you.”
I could not answer.
Sofia stepped into room.
For once, she did not rescue silence.
We stayed there.
Three people.
One child alive.
One child dead.
Two parents lost.
Different grief.
No competition.
Eventually I took Claire’s book from floor.
Closed it.
That tiny act felt enormous.
The next week I called a grief therapist.
Not because Sofia told me.
Not because Emma asked.
Because I was tired of preserving pain as loyalty.
Over months, I changed Claire’s room.
Not erased.
Photographs stayed.
Stars stayed.
Some clothes boxed carefully.
Toys donated? Not all. A few chosen to keep, others donated to children’s hospital through anonymous standard donation, not media.
Yellow boots remained on shelf.
The room became a place I could enter.
Not a tomb.
Sunflowers grew that summer.
Uneven.
Tall.
Wild.
Emma visited twice a month.
Sometimes Sofia came.
Sometimes Mrs. Bell took them through garden while I worked.
I did not make Emma my daughter.
Important.
I did not buy her things Claire would have liked.
Did not turn grief into replacement.
She was Gabriel’s daughter.
Sofia’s child.
Her own person.
I was Mr. Moretti.
Then one afternoon, she called me Dante by accident.
Sofia corrected:
“Mr.—”
I stopped her.
“It’s fine.”
Emma looked pleased.
“Dante.”
Strange.
Human.
Later Sofia said:
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“She’s getting attached.”
“I know.”
“So are you.”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Does that scare you?”
“More than guns.”
She almost smiled.
“Good.”
“What?”
“Means you’re finally afraid of something normal.”
I laughed.
Then I asked:
“Dinner?”
She became still.
Not family lunch.
Not case meeting.
Not garden visit.
She knew.
“Sofia.”
“Yes?”
“Dinner with me.”
She looked toward Emma.
I said:
“Not because of her.”
“Not because of Gabriel.”
“Not because I owe you.”
“Because I like talking to you.”
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
Pain.
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“That’s all?”
“What else?”
“You’re Dante Moretti.”
“I’ve been informed.”
“You don’t like no.”
“I’m practicing.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
Then:
“Ask again someday.”
My heart moved.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It’s not promise.”
“Of course.”
She left.
I stood in sunflower garden watching them walk away.
May you like
For the first time, no did not feel like loss.
It felt like truth with a door still open.
Related Stories
