PART 1
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Beach
beach
birthdays
On the day my daughters turned eighteen, they placed two faded beach towels on the kitchen table and asked me not to hate them. I recognized those towels immediately. Eighteen years earlier, I had discovered Emily and Grace wrapped inside them in a beach changing cubicle—one in white, the other in pink. Now both girls stood before me with frightened expressions.
Beaches& Islands
“Dad,” Emily said, taking my hand.
“We need to tell you the truth,” Grace added.
My fingers began trembling before I even touched the fabric. Suddenly, I was back on the beach where I had once believed my life was already over.
Three weeks before finding the girls, I had buried my fiancée, Sarah, and our unborn daughter, Ivy. Ivy had never taken a breath, but she already had a name, a crib, and a collection of yellow clothes because Sarah believed every baby deserved something bright. After the funeral, I stopped caring for myself. I barely ate, ignored every phone call, and spent most days sitting in the nursery, staring at the pale-yellow walls.
