But it was the girls who truly kept me going. Olivia had Anne’s stubborn chin and her way of scrunching up her whole face when she laughed. Emma had her gentle curiosity, always staring at everything with those wide, wondering eyes. And Ava, the smallest, had her fierce determination — always the first to roll over, the first to crawl, the first to shout ‘Dada’ from her crib. Every milestone was a stab of joy and pain all twisted together. I’d cheer and clap, and then I’d have to walk into the next room and fall apart because Anne wasn’t there to see it.

When they turned one, we had a little party at the house. I made a smash cake all by myself — it was lopsided and the frosting was too thick, but the girls dug into it with their tiny fists and I laughed for the first time in months. I remember looking at their messy faces and thinking, ‘Anne, I hope you can see this. I hope you know they’re okay.’

The years slipped by like pages in a book you can’t stop reading. First steps turned into running, first words turned into endless questions. I learned how to braid hair by watching YouTube videos at two in the morning. I memorized every Disney movie song and the names of every princess and which lunchbox belonged to which girl. I sat through ballet recitals and soccer games and school plays, always alone in my folding chair, clapping until my hands hurt.

I dated once, a few years after Anne passed. A kind woman named Cheryl who taught at the elementary school. She was patient and warm and the girls liked her, but I couldn’t do it. Every time she laughed, I’d hear Anne’s laugh. Every time she touched my hand, it felt like a betrayal. I ended things after six months, and Cheryl understood. She said I wasn’t ready, and she was right. I don’t think I’ll ever be.

People in Ashford were good to us. The church brought meals for years. The neighbors mowed our lawn when they saw the grass getting too high. Anne’s best friend, Linda, still came over every Sunday with fresh flowers for the kitchen table, just like Anne used to keep. It was as if the whole town had wrapped their arms around us, holding us up so we wouldn’t fall.

The girls grew into their own people. Olivia became the responsible one, always organizing her sisters and reminding me about permission slips and book fair money. Emma was the dreamer, spending hours drawing and writing little stories about talking animals and faraway lands. Ava was the firecracker, climbing the tallest trees on the street and coming home with scraped knees and triumphant grins. They were so different, but they shared one thing: their mother’s heart.

Every year on Anne’s birthday, we’d release balloons in the backyard. We’d write messages on little slips of paper first — ‘I love you Mommy’, ‘I miss you’, ‘Thank you for giving us Daddy’. I’d watch those balloons float up into the sky and imagine them reaching her, wherever she was. The girls would cry, and I’d hold them, and we’d all promise to remember her.

On the anniversary of her passing, I’d take the day off work and drive to the cemetery. I’d sit by her headstone and talk to her, telling her about the girls, about my job at the auto shop, about the little things that made me laugh or cry that week. Sometimes I’d bring a sunflower. Sometimes I’d just sit in silence and let the tears come. I never went with anyone else. That was our time, just Anne and me.

Yesterday, the girls turned ten. A decade without their mother. A decade of me trying to be enough for them.

We’d planned a big backyard party for months. The girls had made lists of everything they wanted: a three-tiered cake because they couldn’t agree on flavors, a bounce house, a magician, and enough streamers to decorate the whole house. I’d spent the week hanging banners and blowing up balloons, and Karen had come over to bake three different cake layers — chocolate for Olivia, vanilla for Emma, and strawberry for Ava.

The day was perfect. The sun was warm but not too hot, and the backyard was full of kids from their class and neighbors we’d known for years. The magician pulled a rabbit out of a hat and the girls squealed with delight. The bounce house was practically vibrating with the energy of ten-year-olds. I stood by the grill, flipping burgers and watching them, and for the first time in a long time, I felt something close to peace.

When it was time for cake, we all gathered around. The girls wore matching tiaras that Linda had bought them, and their smiles were so big they could’ve lit up the whole town. I lit the candles and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of our lungs. They made three separate wishes, and I closed my eyes and made one too — the same one I’d made every year since they were born: that their mother could somehow see them, somehow know how amazing they were.