It looked exactly like the star Frank had used every Sunday throughout my childhood.
“Where did you get that?”
Caroline picked it up gently.
“It belonged to Frank.”
“No. His is at my house.”
“He had two, dear,” she said.
Beneath the cutters was an old photograph.
Caroline lifted it out and passed it to me.
A little girl was standing beside a kitchen table, grinning over a plate piled with star-shaped apple pancakes.
She appeared to be around five.
Behind her stood Frank.
He was younger.
Thinner.
And smiling with a kind of happiness I had never seen in any photograph of him.
“Who is she?”
Caroline’s voice trembled.
“Her name was Miley.”
Something about the room seemed to close around me.
“Frank was married before he met your mother,” Caroline revealed. “Miley was his daughter.”
My fingers tightened around the edges of the photograph.
“Where is she?”
Caroline lowered her eyes.
“She died when she was five.”
The quietness of those words somehow made them worse.
“There was an accident at a lake. It happened quickly. Frank blamed himself even though there was nothing he could have done.”
I dropped into a chair because my legs could no longer support me.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“After Miley died, his marriage collapsed,” Caroline said. “He stopped speaking to people. He stopped answering my calls. We were best friends. He packed away every photograph, every toy, every reminder that he had ever been a father.”
My gaze returned to the small star-shaped cutter.
“The pancakes.”
“He made them for Miley.”
Caroline sat opposite me.
“Then one morning, after he married your mother, you climbed into his lap and fell asleep against his chest. When you woke up, you asked whether he knew how to make pancakes shaped like stars.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were four.”
