He became very good at excuses.
Not because Elena had given him any.
Because he was trying to protect six little girls from a truth they were too young to carry.
He worked double shifts.
He learned how to braid hair badly.
Then better.
He packed six lunches before sunrise.
He attended parent-teacher conferences with grease still under his fingernails from work.
He sat through dance recitals.
Volleyball games.
School plays.
Emergency room visits.
Breakups.
College applications.
He signed permission slips at midnight because someone always remembered them at the last second.
And when Maya developed a fever at three in the morning, he sat on the bathroom floor with her until it broke.
Elena missed all of it.
Birthdays.
First days of school.
Graduations.
Christmas mornings.
Broken arms.
First dates.
The ordinary things.
The things that become a childhood.
Sometimes there were letters.
The girls sent them.
Most came back.
