“Tell me a story,” Eleanor says, but I can’t think of one. At least not one with a happy ending. I try to think of princesses and castles, but all I can see is her mother’s face echoed in her own, so I am silent.

“Shhh. Not tonight,” I tell her. “Daddy’s tired. Close your eyes.”

And she does. Squeezing them so tight that her tiny mouth turns slightly upwards into the makings of a smile. She rolls away, her back towards me, and I whisper, “I love you.”

I sit in the corner of her room waiting for the sound of heavy breathing. My ears attune to the waves coming from the sound machine. As Eleanor drifts to sleep, I can hear my own breathing match hers, becoming heavy.

My hands start to shake, and I try to force myself to relax.

Stay calm. Stay calm.

I don’t want to, but I start to cry. It starts to get harder and harder to control myself. My crying gets louder and I begin to lose control of my own body.

I clasp a hand over my mouth, so I don’t wake up Eleanor.

I feel like I’m suffocating, but I can’t tell if I am.

There’s a faint echo in my ears, and everything gets blurry as I squeeze my eyes shut. The darkness rushes in and takes over and I can feel my heart beat slow and the tears stop.

I exhale a long sigh, pulling my shirt up to dry the tears on my face.

My mind drifts.

At first there is emptiness—an emotionless calm—but thoughts turn to tomorrow and what was to come. I try to think of the logistical aspects: we’ll get up at seven, pancakes for breakfast, we’ll get dressed. My suit hangs in my closet; my daughter’s dress in hers. Should I do something with her hair? I could never do the braids or even the simple ponytails that my wife would do. I would rush it, trying to pull together all the hair no matter how many tangles or snarls were present. Even headbands were beyond my skill set. She could just wear her hair down with maybe a pink bow clipped on the side.

She is so peaceful when she sleeps. Her hands folded, underneath her head; a small, still smile as she dreams.

I get up to leave, standing over her bed watching, thinking about how we hadn’t talked about tomorrow. We had talked about tomorrow before, but not today. Not when tomorrow was tomorrow; just when the day was a few days away.

I’ll talk to her in the morning, but I know she won’t understand. Not when her mouth is full of pancakes. Her five-year-old brain focused on chewing and swallowing and the sweetness of syrup.

I’ll tell her when we’re getting dressed, but that won’t be the right time either, because it’s a new dress and she’ll do what she always does in new dresses: dance and twirl and shout, “I love this dress!” at the top of her lungs.

And so, before leaving her to her dreams, I lean over and say, “Hey, lady. Tomorrow’s mommy’s funeral. Tomorrow we say goodbye.”

Downstairs it’s quiet. I can hear the barely audible whisper of the sound machine, the buzz of the refrigerator, and the kick from the air conditioner as it turns on. I feel the weight begin to push on my chest. The same weight that’s been there for the past several months. The crush of something unknown, but I know that it’s known. It was the sense of impending death and the unwillingness to give in; that sense of wanting to fight, but knowing that you couldn’t win. The aversion to speak of it until it was too late, and just letting the unspoken word live in the space between us as my eyes met hers.

I can’t seem to catch my breath. I breathe in deeply, but it’s not enough. I feel like I’m choking. I want it to end. I want tomorrow to be over and the next day to have a bit more sense to it.

I want control.

I want her here again.

So I close my eyes and think of her.

It feels good having her here with me again. At least in the form of a memory.

But then, the moment passes. The pain returns. It feels raw, like broken glass. It’s sharp and rough.

I can’t do this on my own.

She always was a part of me. She always will be. I’m not complete without her.

Going to the kitchen, I grab a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. Pouring a shot, I down it quickly. People say that vodka doesn’t have a taste, but they are really stupid. It tastes like alcohol, but it shifts my focus away from this feeling of pain to the taste, the burn, and I’m not thinking all those other thoughts. I pour another shot and drink it. I can feel the weight begin to shift in my chest. Another shot and then another, and I put the bottle away, going upstairs to our room—my room—lying down as things start becoming hazy.

This bed is too big. This room is too dark.

Before she was too sick, many nights I’d already be in bed, reading with the sound of her nighttime routine in the background: water running, the whir of the electric toothbrush, the flush of the toilet.

It’s too quiet now.

I roll over and close my eyes and think about sleeping until all is still.