“Daddy, Rosie ate the Easter eggs,” Elizabeth announced as I shuffled into the living room still in my bathrobe. She and Sarah were sitting cross-legged on the couch in their nighties examining the contents of their Easter baskets: multi-colored jelly beans, an assortment of foil-wrapped candy eggs, a giant chocolate bunny, and Peeps, little yellow marshmallow chickens.

I looked behind the door, behind the TV, the base of the floor lamp, and the back corner of the couch. Empty nests of green Easter grass marked the locations where just a few hours earlier I had hidden pastel-colored eggs. I rushed into the kitchen. Lying on her belly, her tawny muzzle flattened on the linoleum floor in front of her water bowl, our Golden Retriever, Rosie, looked up at me with her big brown eyes and thumped her furry tail just once. “Br-a-a-a-p!!” she belched, and looked away.

Easter had not started well. At bedtime the night before, after we set out a basket of fresh eggs and a carrot for the Easter Bunny, I asked the girls which dresses they wanted to wear to church in the morning.

“Daddy,” Elizabeth said. “Mommy always buys us new dresses for Easter.” Sarah nodded her head in agreement. My heart sank.

“I’m sorry, girls,” I said, an apology oft repeated in the months since Elaine left for a fifteen-week job training course across the continent in Georgia. “Daddy just forgot. We’ll have to do the best we can.”

In their mother’s absence, the girls and I had had our ups and downs. After dinner each night to mark the passage of another day until Mommy comes home, the girls took turns pasting a gold star on the large, red, construction-paper heart they had made and hung on the kitchen wall over the telephone. I tried some new recipes, baked chicken and noodles, which is still a favorite. But, it was not until Elaine returned that I learned macaroni and hamburger tastes better with a little tomato sauce mixed in.

Seven-year old Elizabeth relished her important role, helping Daddy. Sarah, just six and still in kindergarten, did her best, but at times missing Mommy simply overwhelmed her. Several mornings, she fought having to get out of the car at Leslie Rice’s house where she went before school. Then one morning she refused to go in and had to be carried. The next morning, Sarah wouldn’t get out of bed.

“I want my Mommy!” she shouted.

I took Elizabeth to school, and when I returned I tried to humor her. I brought Sarah a bowl of cereal and a glass of milk.

“I want my Mommy! I want my Mommy! I want my Mommy!!” she screamed, and pulled the covers back over her head. I called my office and told them I wouldn’t be in, at least for the morning. I called Leslie, but neither of us could think of what to do. I dreaded having to call Elaine that evening.

At mid-morning, I went back to Sarah’s bedside and lifted the corner of her quilt. Her face was buried in her pillow. “Sarah,” I said. “You don’t have to go to Leslie’s today. Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go down to the five and dime and buy a kite. We can fly it at Bugge Beach.”

Her head turned. An eye peeked up at me and then a big, wide Sarah grin. We bought two kites, a green one and a blue one. We were alone on the beach, and we raced up and down teasing them higher and higher on the wind. Then we sat by a tide pool and ate the bologna sandwiches I had packed. The next morning, she went back to Leslie’s.

By Easter morning, gold stars covered half of the red heart. Our confidence had grown; we were on the homestretch. Still, I was thankful the girls seemed more concerned about Rosie’s tummy ache than the missing Easter eggs. We got ready for church; the girls picked out their best dresses and put on straw bonnets and lacy white gloves. Elizabeth tied the pink bow on the back of Sarah’s dress for her and asked me to tie hers in turn. I did, but considered asking one of the women at church to redo it. Then I thought, no, we’re doing all right on our own.

Afterwards, we went to the Easter Brunch at the Cape Fox Lodge, an annual affair featuring a large smorgasbord and live music. Arrayed around the atrium, the serving tables looked like fantasy islands. Each was draped in white linen and decorated with flowers and sea-mammal ice-sculptures, the food displayed on silver trays. Never wasteful eaters, the girls enjoyed looking and choosing from the huge selection of breakfast dishes, fruits, and pastries of every description.

Elizabeth shied away from the large man in the white chef’s hat and apron who, wielding a big knife, offered her a slice of ham. She opted instead for some sausage links and scrambled eggs, food she could serve herself. She selected a croissant, and then filled the remainder of her plate with fruit: grapes, cantaloupe and a plump strawberry. Sarah took some scrambled eggs, a jelly-filled tart, then a slice of kiwi fruit, a chunk of pineapple, and a wedge of watermelon.

As we were leaving the dining room, the sun came out. I thought we were past the rough spots: the forgotten new Easter dresses and the purloined colored eggs — until we passed the table where Bertha and Sven Hansen were eating.

“We missed you girls yesterday,” Bertha said, grabbing Sarah and giving her a big hug. “Didn’t you go to the Easter Egg Hunt?”

The girls looked up at me in utter disbelief. The annual Easter Egg Hunt at the Mall was a much-anticipated affair for Ketchikan children. Dressed in bunny costumes, Bertha and Sven were the avuncular hosts. My chest sagged. My shoulders slumped. I could have been kicked by a mule and felt better. I would rather have been trodden under the feet of a thousand elephants than face the disappointment I saw in my daughter’s faces.

“Girls —- I’m so sorry. I forgot all about it,” I managed, but didn’t manage. “Daddy made a mistake.” Seeking reassurance, Elizabeth moved over to my side. I took her hand, and after a moment she squeezed mine as if to say, it’s okay, Daddy. I cuddled Sarah, but she was being brave about it too.

We drove home in silence. I reminded the girls they had their Easter candy to look forward to — I had let them have only one piece before church — and Mommy planned to call during the afternoon. As we climbed the stairs to the house, I thought it was over; how could anything else go wrong.

But, it could. Anxious to tackle the candy in their Easter baskets, the girls rushed into the living room. There were shrieks of dismay.

“Daddy, Rosie ate our chocolate bunnies!” I heard the doggie door in the back of the house slap shut.

I wanted to be angry. Instead, I was envious. I wanted to slink out through the doggie door, too. Take a bottle of whiskey out in the back yard and just get drunk. But I couldn’t do that. I wanted to go upstairs to my bedroom, close the door, and try to sleep away the rest of the day. But I couldn’t do that either. Not “until Mommy comes home.”