For Lucy

by Jewel E. Ann

my wife made me promise to love our daughter more than her. She said parents were supposed to love their children more than each other—some sappy sentiment about our daughter being the best of us.

I will never be with another person as long as Tatum is alive. It wouldn’t be fair to someone else. There’s no way I could love another woman the way I love her. My love for her is not contingent on her love for me. It’s not even contingent on us being married.

We didn’t just fall in love, we collided until our souls tangled, until we knew any attempt to live without each other would leave us crippled.

“Fine,” she huffed. “So we both agree that life is better with your big dick inside of me.”

“I think when we sleep, our minds try to fill in the holes. The emotional wounds. And for a split second when we wake, everything doesn’t hurt. For a few breaths, things feel right and normal. Then we blink and it all shatters like illusions do. Everything starts to hurt again.”

I don’t wake up every morning and spend an hour practicing loving you like taking a morning jog. It’s automatic. It’s like my heart beating. I don’t think about it.