When she needed something practical and Daniel asked me to help, I usually did.
And when Ava introduced me to people as “just Dad’s wife,” I swallowed whatever reaction rose in my throat and told myself she was sixteen, that divorce and remarriage were complicated, and that patience mattered more than pride.
The problem was that patience had slowly become something else.
I had started measuring every word before I spoke around her.
If I asked how school went, I worried I was prying.
If I gave her space, I worried Daniel would think I was being cold.
If I offered to help, Ava sometimes looked at me as though I had crossed an invisible line nobody had bothered to explain.
Daniel usually responded with the same advice.
Give her time.
So I did.
Three years of it.
That Saturday, I told myself I was going to enjoy the barbecue and stop monitoring every expression on Ava’s face.
Daniel’s mother was there, along with his brother and several other relatives, and for most of the afternoon I kept busy helping with the ordinary things nobody remembers afterward.
I carried dishes outside.
I checked the food on the kitchen counter.
I cleared empty cups.
I made sure there were enough napkins and paper plates.
It was easier to keep moving than to stand around wondering whether Ava was irritated by my presence again.
At one point Daniel’s mother asked if I could bring the lemonade outside.
I went into the kitchen and picked up the glass pitcher.
It was full of lemonade and ice, cold enough that condensation had formed along the outside.
I carried it toward the deck, listening to the overlapping conversations outside.
Someone laughed near the grill.
Ava was laughing too, looking down at something on her phone while standing near the deck stairs.