These were the photographs I wanted people to pick up, pass around, and talk about. PART 117 — THE SUNDAY WE INVITED THEM In early autumn, I invited Miriam and Clara to lunch. Clara drove in from her town. Miriam brought more shortbread. Robert made the rolls. My sons and their families joined us. At first, the children were shy with the two women. Then Clara told them about Grandpa’s enormous warehouse keys. “He had so many on one ring that you could hear him coming down the hall,” she said. Miriam said he sometimes lost the ring anyway. Robert insisted it happened only twice. “Twice in one month,” Miriam replied. The table erupted in laughter. I watched Clara show my granddaughter where she had stood in the old photograph. She was no longer just a name beside a ledger entry. She was here, eating lunch in my kitchen. PART 118 — A PICTURE WITH EVERYONE IN IT Before they left, my granddaughter wanted a photograph. She arranged us in the yard beneath the maple tree. Miriam sat in the middle. Clara stood beside her. Robert and I took our places behind them. My sons and the children crowded around us. There was barely room in the frame. The first picture caught my grandson looking down. The second caught Clara laughing at something Miriam had said. We kept that one. After everyone went home, I added a print to the album. Beneath it, I wrote: The people who remembered helped us tell the story. I left a little room at the bottom of the page. I expected my granddaughter would think of something else to add. PART 119 — THE WATCH AT MIDNIGHT That night, I stayed up later than I meant to. The house was quiet. The repaired watch ticked on the shelf. I took it down and held it in my palm. Its glass was still scratched. Its initials were still uneven. June had cleaned what needed cleaning and returned it to me as it was. I thought about the letter that had waited years for me to read it. I thought about Clara’s notes, Miriam’s photograph, and my mother’s voice on the tape. There were things I wished had reached me sooner. Tonight, I was grateful for the people who had kept them safe long enough to reach me at all. I put the watch back on the shelf and turned off the light.
PART 120 — THE LETTER WITHOUT A NAME
The next morning, I found an envelope tucked beneath my front door.
There was no stamp.
There was no return address.
Only my name, written in a hand I did not recognize.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Ask Robert where he went the winter after Evelyn died.
I read it twice.
Then I turned the page over.
There was nothing else.
For a few minutes, I stood in the hallway listening to the house.
A car passed outside.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen.
Grandpa’s pocket watch ticked on its shelf.
I took a photograph of the note and called Robert.
He answered cheerfully.
“Did you get the tomatoes I left yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
I looked at the paper.
“Where did you go the winter after Mom died?”
His breathing changed.
“Who asked you that?”
“Someone left a note at my door.”
“I’m coming over.”
“I asked you a question.”
“I know.”
The call ended before I could stop him.
PART 121 — WHAT ROBERT CARRIED
Robert arrived twenty minutes later.
He had driven without a coat.
I handed him the note.
He read it standing in my hallway.
“Do you know who wrote it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you know why they want me to ask?”
“I have an idea.”
We sat at the kitchen table.
Robert laid the note between us.
“After Evelyn died, I went to Kansas City,” he said.
“Why?”
“To see a lawyer.”
“About the company?”
“About you.”
I waited.
“I had heard she was gone,” he said.
“I thought she might have left you something explaining where I was.”
“She didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“What did the lawyer do?”
“He helped me prepare a statement.”
“What statement?”
Robert looked at his hands.
“Everything I remembered about why I left.”
I felt a chill.
“Did you give it to Grandpa?”
“No.”
“Did you send it to me?”
“No.”
“Then where is it?”
“That’s what I need to find out.”
PART 122 — THE LAWYER IN KANSAS CITY
Robert remembered the lawyer’s name.
Samuel Price.
He remembered the office above a pharmacy and the receptionist who offered him coffee in a paper cup.
“He typed while I talked for nearly three hours,” Robert said.
“What did you tell him?”
“The company records.”
“The threats.”
“How I stayed away.”
“Did you sign it?”
“Yes.”
“What happened afterward?”
“I asked him to keep it until I decided what to do.”
“You waited again.”
“Yes.”
I wanted to be angry.
I was angry.
But someone had left a note at my door because they knew the statement existed.
“Is Mr. Price still practicing?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I called Margaret.
She found that Samuel Price had retired, but his former office still held archived client files.
Robert would have to request his own record.
He called while I sat beside him.
The person on the phone said they would look for it.
PART 123 — THE PERSON AT THE DOOR
Before we heard back from the office, I checked my doorbell camera.
It had been installed after the break-in.
The recording showed a woman walking up my porch steps shortly after dawn.
She wore a raincoat and held the envelope against her chest.
She slipped it under the door, looked toward the street, and left.
I did not recognize her.
I showed Robert.
He leaned close to the screen.
“No,” he said.
“You don’t know her?”
“Not from this picture.”
I sent the recording to Margaret.
Then I called Pam.
“Have you seen this woman?”
Pam watched the clip I sent her.
“Maybe.”
“Who?”
“I need to look at an old photograph.”
She called back ten minutes later.
“I think her name is Helen Price.”
“Samuel Price’s wife?”
“His daughter.”
PART 124 — HELEN’S REASON
Margaret contacted Samuel Price’s old office.
Later that afternoon, Helen called me herself.
“I should have knocked,” she said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to me.”
“You came to my house before sunrise.”
“I know.”
“How did you learn where I live?”
“Your name was in a public court filing.”
I sat down.
“What do you know about Robert’s statement?”
“My father kept a copy among his papers.”
“Did he send you?”
“No.”
“He died last month.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She paused.
“I was sorting his files when I found Robert’s statement and a note my father had written for himself.”
“What did the note say?”
“Call Robert Harper if Nancy ever asks.”
I glanced at Robert across the table.
“He could have called us.”
“He had retired before the court case.”
“He was ill for several years.”
Helen’s voice softened.
“I saw your name in a newspaper article about the company investigation.”
“I recognized it from the file.”
“Why leave a mysterious note?”
“I didn’t know whether I could give you a client document.”
“I thought Robert should be the one to tell you it existed.”
“Then why didn’t you contact Robert?”
“I only had an old address for him.”
There were better ways she could have handled it.
I could hear that she knew so too.
“Margaret can speak with you about the file,” I said.
“I’d appreciate that.”
PART 125 — THE STATEMENT
The archived office released a copy to Robert the following week.
He asked me to read it with him.
It was fourteen pages long.
Some parts repeated facts we already knew.
Others were Robert’s memories of meetings, arguments, and the night he decided to leave.
I read slowly.
Halfway through, I found a passage about my mother.
Evelyn asked me to stay long enough to tell Nancy goodbye.
I told her a goodbye would frighten our daughter more than a short absence.
I believed I would return within a few weeks.
I stopped.
Robert sat across from me.
“You thought you would come back that soon?”
“Yes.”
“What changed?”
“The threats didn’t stop.”
“And after they did?”
“I was ashamed.”
I looked down at the page.
I had imagined a single decision that took my father away for decades.
Instead, I was reading about one decision followed by many others.
Each time he could have come home, he had found a reason to wait another day.
PART 126 — THE LAST PARAGRAPH
Near the end of the statement, Robert described seeing me from across a street years later.
I had been leaving a grocery store with my two sons.
He had pulled into a parking space before he recognized us.
I read his words aloud.
The older boy carried a bag.
The younger one held Nancy’s hand.
She looked tired.
I nearly got out of the car.
I remembered that grocery store.
I remembered how the boys used to argue over who carried the bread.
“You were there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How old were they?”
“Eight and four, I think.”
“You saw us.”
“I did.”
“And you drove away.”
“Yes.”
Robert did not ask me to understand.
He waited while I finished reading.
The final paragraph said he wanted the statement preserved in case I ever needed to know the full account from him.
I put the pages down.
“I needed to know while you were standing across the street,” I said.
“I know.”
PART 127 — A WALK BEFORE DINNER
I could not sit at the table any longer.
I went outside and walked toward the corner.
Robert followed at a distance.
When I stopped, he stopped too.
“I can go home,” he said.
“No.”
“I don’t want to make this harder.”
“It is hard.”
“I know.”
I turned toward him.
“Did you think about me afterward?”
“Every day.”
“Did you think about my boys?”
“Yes.”
“Then why am I learning this from a file?”
“Because I was afraid you would ask exactly what you’re asking now.”
“And what is that?”
“Why loving you wasn’t enough to make me come back.”
He looked older than he had that morning.
“I still don’t have an answer that makes it right,” he said.
I took a breath.
“I don’t need you to make it right tonight.”
“Then what do you need?”
“I need you to stay while I’m angry.”
“I can do that.”
We walked home together without speaking.
PART 128 — THE DINNER WE MADE ANYWAY
There were potatoes in the oven and chicken ready to cook.
I washed my hands.
Robert asked whether he should help.
“Yes.”
He chopped vegetables at the counter.
I seasoned the chicken.
We moved around each other in the small kitchen.
Every so often, I remembered him sitting in that parking lot while my boys and I walked past.
I wanted to ask another question.
Sometimes I did.
Sometimes I let the quiet last.
When dinner was ready, we sat down.
The statement lay in a folder on the far end of the table.
Neither of us put it away.
PART 129 — WHAT I TOLD MY SONS
A few days later, I invited my sons over.
I told them about the statement before handing it to them.
“You don’t have to read it,” I said.
My oldest took the folder.
“I want to.”
My youngest said he did too.
They read in the living room while I made coffee.
When my oldest reached the grocery store passage, he called me in.
“Was this the one near our apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I used to carry the bread,” he said.
“You did.”
He looked at Robert’s words again.
“I don’t know how to feel about this.”
“Neither did I.”
“Are you angry with him?”
“Yes.”
“Is he still coming Sunday?”
“Yes.”
My son nodded.
“All right.”
PART 130 — THE PAGE HELEN KEPT
Helen Price sent a second note through Margaret.
Her father had kept one page separate from the signed statement.
It was a letter Robert had begun writing to me but never finished.
There was no date.
Only the opening lines.
Nancy, I have tried a hundred times to explain why I stayed away.
Every sentence I write sounds as if I’m asking you to comfort me for the choice I made.
The page ended there.
I showed it to Robert.
“I don’t remember writing this one,” he said.
“Do you still feel that way?”
“Yes.”
I put the page beside the statement.
“Then don’t ask me to comfort you.”
“I won’t.”
“Tell me when something is difficult.”
“I can do that.”
“Tell me if you remember another day you saw us.”
He looked at me.
“I will.”
PART 131 — THE NEXT SUNDAY
On Sunday, Robert arrived at six.
He waited on the porch after knocking.
When I opened the door, he held up a bag of groceries.
“I bought too much,” he said.
I stared at him.
It was what Grandpa used to say when he brought food to my apartment.
Robert’s expression changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t know he said that.”
“No.”
I took the bag.
Inside were potatoes, apples, and the cereal my youngest son still liked.
“Come in,” I said.
We put the groceries away together.
There were still pages of the statement I wanted to discuss.
I was still angry that he had seen us and left.
He knew both things.
He stayed for dinner.
PART 132 — THE BOX OF CEREAL
The cereal sat unopened on the kitchen counter for three days.
It was the same kind Grandpa used to bring when my sons were little.
My youngest son noticed it when he stopped by after work.
“I haven’t seen that box in years,” he said.
“Robert bought it.”
He picked it up and turned it over.
“Grandpa Henry used to say it was on sale.”
“It never was.”
My son smiled.
“I knew.”
“You did?”
“He thought he was being discreet.”
I laughed.
My son set the box down.
“Is everything all right with you and Robert?”
“We’re talking about the statement.”
“That sounds hard.”
“It is.”
“Do you want me to speak with him?”
“You can speak with him about what you read.”
“I mean for you.”
I touched his arm.
“I’m speaking for myself.”
He nodded.
“I know you are.”
PART 133 — THE SECOND TIME
On Sunday, I asked Robert whether the grocery store was the only time he had seen us before he came home.
He put down his fork.
“No.”
“How many times?”
“Four that I remember.”
I felt the room grow very still.
“Tell me.”
He described seeing me at a gas station when my oldest son was a teenager.
I had been cleaning the windshield while the boys waited in the car.
Years later, he saw me leave Grandpa’s funeral.
“I stood across the road,” he said.
“You were at the funeral?”
“I couldn’t make myself go inside.”
“Alan was there.”
“I saw him.”
“Did Grandpa know you would come?”
“No.”
I gripped my glass.
“You let us bury him while you watched from across the street.”
“Yes.”
Robert’s face was pale.
“I need a moment,” I said.
I stood and went out to the porch.
He did not follow.
PART 134 — THE PORCH STEP
I sat on the top step and looked across the yard.
Grandpa’s funeral had been cold and windy.
I remembered clinging to my oldest son’s arm while people came up to tell me what Henry had meant to them.
Robert had been close enough to see me.
At the time, I would have run to him if I had known.
I was sure of it.
I also knew the person I had been then could not make the choice now.
The door opened behind me.
Robert stayed in the doorway.
“I can leave,” he said.
“I’m trying to decide what to say.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Did you think about coming over after the service?”
“Yes.”
“What stopped you?”
“I saw Dale.”
I turned.
“Dale spoke to you?”
“No.”
“He was near your car.”
Robert looked down.
“I was afraid the past would begin again before I could tell you who I was.”
I let out a breath.
“You were afraid.”
“Yes.”
“I was grieving Grandpa.”
“I know.”
“You made your fear the most important thing in the room.”
He nodded.
“I did.”
PART 135 — A BOUNDARY
When I went back inside, dinner had gone cold.
I did not try to reheat it.
“I want you to tell me every time you saw us,” I said.
Robert reached for his glass and stopped.
“Now?”
“No.”
“Then when?”
“Write it down.”
“All right.”
“Dates if you know them.”
“I’ll try.”
“And what you did afterward.”
He met my eyes.
“I’ll write it.”
“I don’t want to find another account in someone else’s file.”
“You won’t.”
I looked at him.
“If there is anything else you’re afraid to tell me, this is the time.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think there is.”
“Think carefully.”
“I will.”
He left early that evening.
I stood at the door until his car turned the corner.
PART 136 — THE LIST
Robert brought the list four days later.
He had written on lined paper.
Some dates were approximate.
The first time was the grocery store.
The second was the gas station.
The third was a school concert he had seen advertised in a community newspaper.
I looked up from the page.
“You came to my son’s concert?”
“I stood at the back.”
“Which son?”
“Your oldest.”
“He played the trumpet.”
Robert nodded.
“He was nervous at first.”
“He practiced for weeks.”
“I could tell.”
I looked back down.
The fourth time was Grandpa’s funeral.
Robert had written what he remembered seeing, where he stood, and why he left.
At the bottom, he had added:
I cannot give Nancy those moments with me.
I can stop hiding them from her.
I read the list once more.
Then I put it on the table.
PART 137 — THE CONCERT PROGRAM
My oldest son kept a box of school papers in his garage.
When I told him about the concert, he found the program.
His name appeared under Second Trumpet.
He brought it to my house that night.
“I almost fainted before we started,” he said.
“I remember.”
“Grandpa Henry told me to look for him in the front row.”
“He was there.”
“And Robert was in the back?”
“That’s what he says.”
My son studied the program.
“I wish he’d come to talk to us afterward.”
“I do too.”
“Did he hear the whole thing?”
“He said he did.”
My son gave a small, reluctant smile.
“Then he heard me miss the entrance in the second song.”
“You recovered.”
“The conductor glared at me.”
I laughed.
We sat together with the program between us.
It was one more ordinary memory with a painful edge.
PART 138 — THE REHEARSAL ROOM
A week later, my oldest son invited Robert to dinner at his house.
He told me afterward.
“I wanted to ask him about the concert without everyone listening.”
“How did it go?”
“We talked.”
“That tells me almost nothing.”
He smiled.
“He remembered the song where I came in late.”
“I told him about it.”
“He remembered the name of the song before I did.”
I waited.
“He said he’d kept the newspaper clipping.”
“Does he still have it?”
“Yes.”
My son glanced away.
“He gave it to me.”
He pulled a folded clipping from his wallet.
The paper was worn along the creases.
Near the bottom was a small notice about the concert.
Robert had kept it for years.
My son handed it to me.
“I’m not ready to tell him I’m glad he was there,” he said.
“You don’t have to.”
“But I’m glad he told me.”
PART 139 — THE THINGS WE KEEP
I put the concert program and the newspaper clipping together in a clear sleeve.
My son asked me not to place them in the family album yet.
“They’re mine for a little while,” he said.
I gave the sleeve to him.
I understood.
Some memories needed time in a drawer before we were ready to show them to everyone.
I had kept my mother’s tape on a shelf where I could reach it.
I had kept Robert’s statement in a folder.
I had put Grandpa’s letter inside the old Bible cover.
Every item held a different part of a life none of us had been able to see all at once.
PART 140 — THE FOURTH SUNDAY
By the fourth Sunday after Robert gave me the list, I was ready to have him at dinner without asking another question the moment he sat down.
We ate chicken and potatoes.
My youngest son came with the children.
The youngest wanted Robert to help repair a loose wheel on the wooden train.
They worked at the far end of the table with a tiny screwdriver.
“Don’t force it,” Robert said.
“I know,” my grandson replied.
“You said that about the watch.”
“I did.”
When the wheel rolled smoothly again, my grandson pushed the train toward me.
“See?”
“I see.”
Robert looked up.
Our eyes met for a moment.
He had missed my sons as children.
He was here helping one of their children repair a toy.
I still wished he had come back sooner.
I was glad he had stayed long enough to tell us the truth.
PART 141 — THE NEWSPAPER PAGE
Later that evening, my oldest son called Robert.
He had decided to put the clipping in his own album.
“I thought you should know,” he said over the speakerphone.
Robert sat up.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I haven’t decided what to write under it.”
“You don’t need to write anything for my sake.”
“I know.”
My son paused.
“I might write that you were at the concert.”
“I was.”
“And that I didn’t know.”
“All right.”
“Then I’ll put down the date.”
After the call, Robert was quiet.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes.”
He looked toward the living room where the children were playing.
“I think I am.”
PART 142 — A PLACE FOR THE LIST
Robert’s list stayed on my table for another week.
One morning, I took it to the album.
I did not paste it over photographs or make it into a caption.
I folded it and placed it in a pocket at the back.
Underneath, I wrote:
Robert told us where he had been.
We told him what those days were like for us.
There was room in the pocket for more pages if we ever needed them.
I closed the album.
The cereal box was still on the counter.
I opened it and poured a bowl.
It tasted exactly as I remembered.
PART 143 — THE ORDINARY MORNING
Robert called while I was eating.
“Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“Having breakfast.”
“Anything good?”
“The cereal you brought.”
He laughed.
“I wasn’t sure anyone would eat it.”
“My son remembered it.”
“I’m glad.”
I looked out at the light on the yard.
“Are you free this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“My grandson has a game.”
“I’d like to come.”
“Then come to my house at one.”
“I’ll be there.”
After we hung up, I rinsed the bowl and set it beside the sink.
I put the pocket watch in my bag.
The children liked to hear it tick while we waited for a game to begin.
At one, Robert pulled into the driveway.
This time, he did not sit in the car.
I met him at the door, and we left together.
PART 144 — THE GAME
My grandson’s game took place on a field behind the elementary school.
We arrived while the children were warming up.
He spotted us near the fence and waved with both arms.
Robert waved back.
“Does he always look for you first?” he asked.
“He looks for whoever promised to come.”
Robert was quiet for a moment.
Then he unfolded the camping chair he had brought me.
“I intend to be easy to find,” he said.
We sat beside my sons and watched the children chase the ball across the grass.
My grandson missed his first chance to score.
He glanced toward the fence.
Robert lifted a hand.
The boy grinned and ran back into the game.
PART 145 — THE WOMAN BESIDE THE FENCE
At halftime, a woman came to stand beside us.
She looked at Robert, then at me.
“Are you Nancy Ellis?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Evelyn Price.”
I stood.
For one confused second, I thought of my mother.
The woman smiled gently.
“Helen Price is my sister.”
“Oh.”
“She told me about the statement our father kept.”
Robert rose from his chair.
Evelyn held up a hand.
“I’m sorry to approach you here.”
“I recognized you from a photograph in Dad’s files.”
“What photograph?” I asked.
“One of Robert outside the old Kansas City office.”
Robert frowned.
“I didn’t know anyone took one.”
“Dad did.”
The children were returning to the field.
Evelyn glanced at them.
“This can wait.”
She gave me her number.
“There’s something I found after Helen sent you the statement.”
I folded the paper and put it in my pocket.
PART 146 — AFTER THE WHISTLE
My grandson’s team won by one goal.
He came running to us with grass on his knees and a story about the final play that grew more dramatic each time he told it.
Robert listened as though every word mattered.
I tried to do the same.
The paper in my pocket seemed to weigh more than it should.
After the children went to get snacks, I told Robert about Evelyn’s call.
“You can phone her from my house,” he said.
“I will.”
“You don’t have to follow every piece of paper the moment it appears.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked across the field at my grandson laughing with his teammates.
“I do today.”
I stayed for the snacks.
PART 147 — THE PHOTOGRAPH
Evelyn Price answered my call that evening.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“A photograph and a note on the back.”
“Can you send me a copy?”
“I can.”
“I thought you wanted to tell me something more.”
“I wanted to explain why I think it matters.”
I waited.
“The photograph shows Robert leaving my father’s office.”
“He said your father took one.”
“There’s a second person beside him.”
“Who?”
“Henry Harper.”
I looked across the kitchen.
Robert was washing the cups we had used after the game.
“Are you sure?”
“My father wrote both names on the back.”
“What’s the date?”
“The winter after your mother died.”
I watched Robert set a cup in the rack.
“He told me Grandpa didn’t know about the statement.”
“He may not have known what was in it,” Evelyn said.
“But they were at the office together.”
PART 148 — WHAT ROBERT REMEMBERED
I ended the call and went to the sink.
“Grandpa went to Samuel Price’s office with you.”
Robert turned off the water.
“Yes.”
“You said you went to see a lawyer.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t tell me Grandpa was there.”
“I thought I had.”
“You hadn’t.”
He dried his hands.
“Dad drove me.”
“Why?”
“My car wouldn’t start that morning.”
“That’s all?”
“He knew I was going to speak with a lawyer.”
“Did he read your statement?”
“No.”
“Did he ask to?”
“He asked what I planned to do with it.”
“What did you tell him?”
Robert looked toward the window.
“That I wanted Nancy to have it when I was ready.”
I folded my arms.
“What did Grandpa say?”
“He asked when I thought that would be.”
“And?”
“I couldn’t give him an answer.”
PART 149 — THE PARKING LOT
Evelyn emailed the photograph an hour later.
Robert stood beside Grandpa outside the lawyer’s office.
Neither smiled.
Grandpa wore the brown coat I remembered from winter mornings at my apartment.
His hand rested lightly on Robert’s shoulder.
On the back, Samuel Price had written their names and the date.
I showed Robert.
“I didn’t know this picture existed,” he said.
“Grandpa went with you.”
“He did.”
“He knew you were trying to tell me something.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the two men.
“Did either of you consider coming to my house after the appointment?”
“We talked about it in the car.”
“What stopped you?”
“Dad said you were working.”
“I often was.”
“He said he wanted to be there when I told you.”
Robert swallowed.
“I said I needed to read the statement first.”
“And then you both waited.”
“Yes.”
I set the photograph down.
For once, there was no new document to search for.
There were only two men who had known where I lived and had gone home instead.
PART 150 — THE VISIT I DIDN’T MAKE
The next morning, I considered driving to Grandpa’s grave.
I had questions for him again.
I put on my coat and found my keys.
Then I stopped in the hallway.
I had been to the cemetery with a letter.
I had read him what I wanted to say.
There would always be another day when I wished I could ask him something.
Going there was one way to remember him.
It was not the only way.
I took off my coat and called my oldest son.
“Can I come over?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I found another photograph.”
He heard something in my voice.
“I’ll put the coffee on.”
PART 151 — MY SON’S KITCHEN
My son studied the picture of Robert and Grandpa.
“The same day as the statement?”
“Yes.”
He turned it over to read the date.
“Grandpa knew?”
“He knew Robert had gone to the lawyer.”
“That must have been a hard day for both of them.”
“It was a hard year for me too.”
My son put the photograph on the table.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I know.”
He poured me coffee.
“I remember how you were after Grandma died.”
“So do I.”
“You went to work.”
“You took care of us.”
“You barely slept.”
I looked down into my cup.
“It would have mattered to know Dad was alive.”
“I think so.”
My son reached across the table.
“Tell him that.”
“I already have.”
