Lily came home tonight to a house without Jake. Lily and Lisa have been San Diego. We find my ten year old in the bathroom crying. She and Jake are intensely close. He always looks out for her. On the floor of the bathroom she tells us “I feel like an only child when Jake is not here.” Her big tears are hard to bear. “Daddy, I miss him. I hope he’s okay. I cry when he cries.” I encourage her to write him.
There is an email service for Camp Colman. This is what she writes:
Lisa unpacks their bags. I come upstairs to change. Lily is asleep in Jake’s bed. A copy of “Jake and the Magic shoes”, a book he wrote when he was seven, lays next to her. I grew up an only child. I get it now. Having a sibling means you always have someone who knows you as well as you know yourself.
Jake we miss you.