The church was too quiet for a place filled with so many people.
I sat in the third pew, watching Melissa's legs swing under the bench. She was seven and couldn't sit still, especially not today. Manuel, her younger brother, was only four, and he kept asking me in whispered questions why everyone was crying. He didn't understand that his father was gone. He just knew something was wrong.
Clara's husband, Michael, was dead. He'd been sick for three months, the kind of sick that sneaks up on you, that you think you'll beat until suddenly you can't anymore. I'd known him through church, through Clara mostly, but I'd grown fond of him over the years. Everyone had.
The service felt long. Hymns and prayers and people standing up to say things about Michael that made everyone cry harder. I kept my hand on Manuel's shoulder, feeling him lean into me like I was an anchor. Melissa had stopped swinging her legs and was just staring at her mother, who sat in the front row looking like she might shatter into pieces.
The sermon finally ended, and people started mingling in that awkward way they do at funerals. Not quite sad enough to leave, but not ready to celebrate either. Clara had asked me earlier to help keep the kids occupied, she knew they'd be restless, and she needed to be present for her family. I didn't mind. It was easier to focus on Melissa and Manuel than to stand around making small talk about death.
I took them to the corner of the church basement where someone had set up some coloring pages and crayons. It wasn't much, but it was something. Melissa immediately started coloring a picture of a butterfly, her tongue poking out in concentration. Manuel climbed into my lap and handed me a crayon without asking.
"Rainbow?" he said hopefully.
"Rainbow," I agreed.
We were halfway through our picture when Melissa's head snapped up.
"Uncle Daniel!" she called out, waving her crayon in the air.
I looked up to see a man walking toward us. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes that looked tired in a way that went deeper than just today. I recognized him vaguely from church, though I'd never actually spoken to him. He had that quality about him, the kind of person who blends into the background, who notices everything but doesn't demand attention.
"Hey, squirt," he said to Melissa, and his voice was warm despite everything else going on. He crouched down and let her throw her arms around him. Manuel immediately scrambled off my lap to hug his uncle too, and Daniel held both of them for a moment, his face pressed against their hair.
When he stood up, that's when he looked at me.
It wasn't like he'd just noticed I was there. It was more like he was seeing me for the first time, really seeing me. Like I'd suddenly come into focus.
"Hi," I said, suddenly aware that I had crayon on my sleeve and probably on my face too. "I'm Lena. I know Clara from church."
"Daniel," he said. "Clara's my brother."
He didn't sit down right away. He just stood there, watching as Manuel climbed back into my lap and handed me the crayon again. Watching as I picked up where we'd left off on the rainbow, my hand steady even though I could feel Daniel's eyes on me.
"Lena's helping us color," Melissa announced, showing him her butterfly. "She's really good at it."
"Is she?" Daniel said, but he wasn't really asking Melissa. He was watching the way Manuel had settled against my shoulder, the way he'd relaxed now that his uncle was here but I was still present. Like I was part of his safety net.
"Come sit," Melissa said, patting the space next to me. "We're making a rainbow."
Daniel sat down on my other side, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. Close enough to see what Manuel and I were doing. But mostly, I think, he was watching me. The way I talked to the kids. The way I didn't talk down to them. The way Manuel kept glancing up at my face like he was checking to make sure I was still there.
We sat like that for a while. Melissa colored her butterfly. Manuel and I worked on our rainbow. Daniel didn't color anything, but he answered Melissa's questions about their dad in a way that was honest but not scary. He didn't lie to them, but he didn't let them see how broken he was either.
It was careful. Intentional. Like he knew exactly what they needed.
"Lena said Daddy's in heaven now," Manuel said quietly, not looking up from the crayon. "And that he's not sick anymore."
I felt my stomach tighten. I hadn't wanted to overstep, but Manuel had asked, and I'd done my best to answer him in a way a four-year-old could understand.
Daniel looked at me, and there was something in his expression that I couldn't quite read. Not anger. Not disapproval. Something more like… recognition.
"That's right," he said finally. "He's not sick anymore."
We stayed in that corner of the basement for almost an hour. Slowly, the church emptied out. People left in clusters, hugging Clara, telling her they were sorry, promising to help however they could. But we stayed. The four of us in our little corner, coloring pictures that didn't matter, existing in a space where it was okay to not be okay.
When it finally seemed like time to leave, Daniel stood up and stretched. Melissa had fallen asleep against his shoulder. Manuel was getting cranky, that tired kind of cranky that only four-year-olds do.
Daniel looked at me like he was trying to figure something out.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For being here with them. For… I don't know. For just being present."
"Of course," I said. It felt like the only thing to say.
"Can I get your number?" he asked, and his voice was careful. "Maybe we could grab coffee sometime. I'd like to talk to you. Actually talk."
My heart did something complicated in my chest.
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I'd like that."
He put his number in my phone, and when he handed it back, his fingers brushed mine for just a moment. Long enough to feel intentional. Long enough to make me wonder if he felt it too.
"I'm glad you were here today," he said. "Really glad."
And standing there in that basement corner, surrounded by crayon shavings and coloring pages, I believed him completely.