May 2, 1944

“Mama, is Daddy okay?” Sera’s sweet voice draws my attention away from the faucet and the hot water cascading over my hands as I scrub at a dish that’s been clean for the last five minutes.

Is he okay?

Am I?

Our poor daughter has known nothing but stability for her entire life. Seeing her parents slowly crumble must be confusing to her.

We’re failing her.

John is slowly descending deeper into the pits of his addiction to alcohol. His addiction to gambling has already taken hold of him, and now the draw of poker chips is no less alluring than a beautiful woman’s crooked finger.

All the while, Sera lives blissfully on, convinced that she comes home to a happy family every day. Or, at least, she used to. She used to not have a worry in the world.

It breaks my heart knowing that may no longer be the case.

“Yes, baby, of course he is,” I lie, finally setting the dish on the towel beside the sink. My hands are bright pink, and there’s a lingering sting as I shut off the water and unplug the stopper, an obnoxious sound arising as the dirty water drains.

“He smells like whiskey when he comes home now.”

I close my eyes, so very disappointed that she knows that.

“I know. He’s been indulging a bit lately, hasn’t he?” I say, staring at the sudsy water slowly swirling down the drain, feeling like it’s a perfect representation of my life. Since when did it become comparable to dirty water filtering out of a sink?

“I hope he doesn’t for my birthday party,” she mutters.

I frown, feeling utterly helpless. Her fourteenth birthday is this Friday, but we’re having a party Saturday. During the day, a few of her girlfriends and other classmates will meet at an arcade for cake and a few games. With the sugar rations, we won’t be able to provide many sweets, but all the moms are hoping to scrounge up enough to satisfy the little heathens.

Later that night, we’ll celebrate—just the three of us.

And I don’t know that John will leave the booze alone. He’ll have hell to pay if he doesn’t, but lately, my wrath isn’t enough to stop him.

I would hope not disappointing his daughter would be convincing enough, but I can’t be certain about that anymore, either.

“Sweetheart, I will do everything in my power to make sure your daddy behaves,” I assure.

I hate making false promises, so I don’t dare swear to her that he will. But I’ll certainly protect her however I can.

“Do you think it’s because he doesn’t love me anymore?”

The moment the last word leaves her mouth, my heart instantly cracks into pieces.

“Oh, baby, of course not!” I assure, turning to face her. She’s sitting on a stool at the kitchen island, drawing random doodles in her notebook. I rush over to her and pull her into my embrace while placing a kiss on top of her head. “Your daddy loves you so much, as do I. Never think otherwise.”

She nods, the movement shaky. She doesn’t cry, but I can feel from the slight tremble rattling her bones that she’s emotional. I can’t imagine how long she’s been thinking her father’s drinking is her fault, and that only forms more fissures in my fragile heart. She doesn’t deserve to feel like that. Ever.

“How about when Daddy comes home, I talk to him, and we plan a date night for the three of us? Maybe a drive-in. Or we could go out for ice cream?” I suggest, already feeling a pinch of worry.

We still have no money, and the last thing I should suggest is to spend more. But I’ll scrounge up every last penny if it puts a smile on her sweet face. I’ll figure it out. I always do.

“I’d love that,” she whispers.

I pepper a few more kisses over the top of her head and release her. She’s at that age where my hugs have time limits now. Before I return to the sink, I catch sight of a few of her drawings.

My heart drops when I notice she drew a figure of a man wearing a long trench coat and a fedora.

“Honey, who is that man you drew?” I ask lightly, pointing at the sketch. I quickly cross my arms, tucking my trembling hands beneath my armpits.

She shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Children and their cryptic, unhelpful answers when you need them most . . .

“Have you seen him before?”

She shrugs again. “There’s been a couple times I thought I saw him outside our window, but when I looked again, he wasn’t there.”

Whatever is left of my heart is now scattered into a million different pieces—none of them where they belong.

I clear my throat. “You tell me if you see him again, yeah?”

“I guess, but he’s not real, Mama,” she insists, rolling her eyes.

Oh, how I wish that were true.