Red Door

She was 2 when it happened.

Little enough to eventually forget,

But big enough to feel the absence.

They had to bust down the door to get in,

To find him in there, all alone on the floor.

The new door they put on is red. It’s ugly.

She toddled around, noticing something out of place.

“Mommy, why you crying?” Her little eyebrows scrunch up.

Mommy gets upset when she breaks character, when the door opens.

“No, sweetie.” An unconvincing smile, as she holds the baby's head in her hands,

pushing little curls behind little ears.

“Mommy's alright. Mommy’s okay.” She swallows hard. Not the first lie, not the last.

She hugs her baby to her chest, hiding the contradictory tears.

A week after the fatal drunken shot,

The mailman rang the doorbell.

She rushes up to the door, a big little-toothed smile there on display.

“Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”

Mommy turns her head, covers her mouth, with a drying, choking sob. The kind that hurt.

A 5th grade girl picks the baby up.

“Not yet, but soon. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Okay.” She says with the trusting grin of a toddler.

That’s the worst lie I’ve ever told.