The Empty Jar(85)

“You look…exquisite. I can’t believe this is my baby Grace standing in front of me. You look so grown up. So much like your mother.” As much as I try not to tear up, I can’t stop the moisture that floods my eyes. I blink through the burn as I smile down at my daughter. “I wish she could be here to see you.”

“I do, too, Daddy.”

For a few seconds, the world falls quiet around us, allowing father and daughter to share their pain, to remember the person missing from such a joyous occasion.

I’ve known this day would be hard. I’ve expected it. Nothing has ever been exactly perfect since Lena died. I’ve had some near-perfect moments with this child of mine, fun times with family and friends, but there is always something missing. From every room, from every event, from every sunset and sunrise, there is always something missing.

My wife.

My other half.

My Lena.

When the music on the other side of the doors changes, Grace takes a deep breath and laces her arm through mine, turning me toward the aisle. That’s our cue.

“You might be giving me away, Daddy, but I’ll never be far.” I pat my baby’s hand, love overflowing the confines of my heart. Much like Lena, Grace always manages to take care of me. Even though it’s I who’s been supposed to take care of her, our roles have been reversed in some ways, right from the start. Her laugh picks me up, her voice soothes me, her presence gives me purpose, and often, her words speak directly to my soul. It’s as though she knows what I’m thinking and feeling, and she seeks to comfort me.

Just like Lena.

The majestic double doors part slowly. The dramatic display further lends itself to the feeling of being in a living fairy tale. I want nothing less for my saving Grace.

Squaring my shoulders, I face the church that stretches out in front of me.

The ceremony is traditional and touching. I’m absolutely certain that I’ll still feel the beauty of it until the day I take my last breath.

The reception is as lively as one would expect it to be in Italy. More people show up for it than I expected, but I’m pleased for Grace’s sake. She seems to be having the time of her life. My only hope is that things will get better and better for her. Minute after minute, day after day. Year after year.

The wine flows freely, the laughter rings loudly, and happiness is the theme of the day. Conversation is easy, and my daughter is perfection flitting around in her off-white Stella McCartney wedding dress that had given me sticker shock for a month and a half. But now I can see that it was worth it.

My Grace…she is worth everything.

Just before nine, an unusual fatigue begins to plague me. No matter how tired I am, though, I refuse to excuse myself early. I wouldn’t miss throwing birdseed (Grace didn’t want the birds to choke on rice) at the newlyweds for all the hours of sleep in the world.

Hours later, as I fling my lacy pouch of pellets, I’m especially grateful that I powered through when I see Grace depart from the line of well-wishers and head straight for me. She already nearly knocked Nissa over, sending Nissa into a flurry of sniffling half-laugh, half-crying hiccups. Now it’s my turn. And I can’t be sure I won’t react the same way. Wouldn’t that give my Gracie something funny to remember?

With shimmering eyes, I watch her hurl herself toward me and throw her slight body into my arms. It’s another moment I know will be forever seared into my brain. The way she smells, the way Rome sounds, the way I wish Lena was here.

“Thank you for today, Daddy. I couldn’t have asked for a better father. You’re more than any girl could possibly deserve.”

My heart swells and pulses with adoration.

“I love you, pipsqueak,” I say gruffly, using another of my favorite nicknames for her, determined not to embarrass us both by crying.

I’ve had many pet names for her over the years. Grace loved having her dad call her different things. When she took an interest in something, it somehow ended up being part of the new name she chose for herself, like the year she discovered squirrels. We’d watched an animated movie together where the main character was a squirrel named Pipsqueak. Grace had demanded that I refer to her only as Pipsqueak for weeks. I was glad to see that phase go, and only a few of the names withstood the test of time. Pipsqueak was one of them, though. And during her teenage years, I’d enjoyed using it to tease her. It had quickly become one of my favorites. And hers again after she grew up a little more.

“Love you, Dad.”

Grace kisses my cheek, and I tug at the long blonde tresses that fall down her back. Reluctantly, I let her go when she pulls away to go and rejoin her new husband.

That might be the hardest part of the whole night—letting her go.

But I did it.

I let my baby go.

I have to, and I know it. I can’t keep her around to fend off the suffocating silence that fills the house when she isn’t there. I can’t keep her around to help distract me from the grief that still gnaws at my soul when it’s too quiet or my mood is just right. I can’t keep her around to keep me from falling apart. She needs her own life, and I want her to have it, even if it means heartache on my part.

“Grace!” I call before she ducks her head into the waiting limo. Her head pops up, and her light brown eyes meet mine. “I left something at the hotel front desk for you.”

“Daddy!” She gives me the look that says You already spent too much money!