Emma, at just eight years old, already showed the determination her mother possessed. She followed me into the kitchen and observed my every move with an intense focus. Her brown eyes, so much like Claire’s, glimmered with curiosity.
“Do you ever wonder what’s in the basement?” she asked out of nowhere.
I nearly dropped the plates in my hands.
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to maintain my composure.
“The basement,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t you ever wonder what’s down there?”
“Just the washing machine, some boxes, and old furniture, probably,” I replied with a chuckle that didn’t sound quite as confident as I’d hoped. “Maybe there are monsters? Or treasure?”
Emma just smiled and walked back into the dining room.
In the dining room, Lily, just six but already mischievous, burst into giggles.
The next day, while I served the girls breakfast, Lily dropped her spoon. Her eyes widened, and she quickly jumped out of her seat to retrieve it.
“Daddy doesn’t like loud noises,” she said in a sing-song voice.
I froze. Claire had never spoken much about the girls’ father. They were once happily married, but now he was “gone.” Claire had never clarified whether he had passed away or was just living elsewhere, and I hadn’t pressed her on it.
I began to feel like I should have asked more about what had happened to him.
A few days later, Lily was coloring at the breakfast table, the crayons scattered across the surface. Her focus was absolute. I leaned over to see what she was working on.
“Is that us?” I asked, pointing to the stick figures she had drawn.
Lily nodded without looking up. “That’s me and Emma. That’s Mommy. And that’s you.” She held up a crayon, deciding on the perfect shade before choosing another for the final figure.
“And who’s that?” I asked, pointing to a figure standing a little apart.
“That’s Daddy,” she said matter-of-factly, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
My heart skipped a beat. Before I could ask another question, Lily drew a gray square around the figure.
“And what’s that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s our basement,” she said, as casually as if she were talking about the weather.
With that, she hopped off her chair and skipped away, leaving me staring at the drawing.
As the week passed, my curiosity grew into a persistent ache. That night, as Claire and I sat together with glasses of wine, I decided to bring it up.
“Claire,” I began carefully. “Can I ask you about… the basement?”
She froze, her wine glass mid-air. “The basement?”
“It’s just… the girls keep mentioning it. And Lily drew this picture—well, it doesn’t really matter. I guess I’m just curious.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Jeff, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a basement. Old, damp, and probably full of spiders. Trust me, you don’t want to go down there.”
Her tone was firm, but her eyes betrayed her. She wasn’t just brushing it off; she was hiding something.
“And their dad?” I asked gently. “Sometimes, it seems like they talk about him like he’s still… here.”
Claire sighed and set her glass down. “He passed away two years ago. It was sudden—an illness. The girls were devastated. I’ve tried to protect them as much as I can, but kids grieve in their own ways.”
There was a crack in her voice, a hesitation I could feel in the air. I didn’t push any further, but the unease lingered in my chest.
It all came to a head a few days later.
Claire was at work, and both girls were home, nursing mild fevers and sniffles. I was busy juggling juice boxes, crackers, and cartoons when Emma wandered into the room, her expression uncharacteristically serious.
“Do you want to visit Daddy?” she asked, her voice steady, in a way that made my heart tighten.
I froze. “What do you mean?”
Lily appeared behind her, clutching her stuffed rabbit.
“Mommy keeps him in the basement,” Lily added casually, as if speaking of the weather.
My stomach dropped. “Girls, that’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke,” Emma said firmly. “Daddy stays in the basement. We can show you.”
Against every rational instinct, I followed them.
The air grew colder as we descended the creaky wooden steps, the flickering light casting eerie shadows. The musty smell of mildew filled my nostrils, and the walls seemed too close.
I stopped on the bottom step, peering into the dark. I couldn’t understand why the girls believed their father was living down here.
“Over here,” Emma said, taking my hand and guiding me toward a small table in the corner.
The table was adorned with colorful drawings, toys, and a few wilting flowers. At its center sat an urn, plain and unassuming. My heart skipped a beat.
“See, here’s Daddy.” Emma smiled up at me, pointing at the urn.
“Hi, Daddy!” Lily chirped, patting the urn like it was a pet. She then turned to me. “We visit him down here so he doesn’t feel lonely.”
Emma placed a hand on my arm. “Do you think he misses us?”
The weight of their innocence hit me like a tidal wave. My throat tightened, and I pulled them both into a hug.
“Your daddy… he can’t miss you because he’s always with you,” I whispered. “In your hearts. In your memories. You’ve made a beautiful place for him here.”
When Claire came home that evening, I told her everything. Her face crumpled as she listened, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I didn’t know,” she admitted, her voice shaking. “I thought putting him down there would help us move on. I didn’t realize they… oh my God. My poor girls.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. They just… they still need to feel close to him,” I said gently. “In their own way.”
We sat in silence, the weight of the past pressing down on us. After a while, Claire wiped her eyes and straightened up.
“We’ll move him,” she said. “Somewhere better. That way, Emma and Lily can mourn him without going down into that musty basement.”
The next day, we set up a new table in the living room. The urn was placed among family photos, surrounded by the girls’ drawings.
That evening, Claire gathered Emma and Lily.
“Your dad isn’t really in that urn,” she told them softly. “He’s in the stories we tell and the love we share. That’s how we keep him close.”
Emma nodded solemnly, and Lily clutched her stuffed bunny.
“Can we still say hi to him?” she asked.
“Of course,” Claire said, her voice trembling slightly. “And you can still draw pictures for him. That’s why we’ve brought his urn up here and made a special place for it.”
Lily smiled. “Thank you, Mommy. I think Daddy will be happier up here with us.”
That Sunday, as the sun set, we lit a candle by the urn and sat together. The girls shared their drawings, and Claire told stories about their dad—his laugh, his love for music, the way he used to dance with them in the kitchen.
As I watched them, I realized that I wasn’t here to replace him. My role was to add to the love that already held this family together.
And I was honored to be part of it.