You didn't choose to leave Evan.
The rescue team was still trying to reach him. The vehicle was unstable. I know that now. I've read the records. I've spoken with one of the responders.
They did everything they could.
And so did you.
My vision blurred completely.
I lowered the letter.
For several seconds, I stared toward the diner window.
Nine years.
Nine years of believing I had made the wrong choice.
Nine years of seeing Evan's face whenever I closed my eyes.
And my daughter had spent part of those years carrying the same unbearable story from the other side.
Rosie touched the patch.
“Mom said you saved her.”
I swallowed.
“I tried.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Her little voice became firm.
“She said you did.”
I looked toward her.
Rosie continued.
“If you hadn't come, she said she wouldn't have been here for me.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I returned to the letter.
There is something else you need to know.
When I left the hospital, I discovered I was pregnant. I know you knew that part. What you didn't know was how frightened I was.
Evan was gone. Mom was gone. I had no idea how to raise a child, and every time I looked at you, I remembered the accident.
I thought distance would make the pain easier.
At first, it did.
Then Rosie was born.
And everything changed.
I looked toward the little girl beside me.
She was watching the other customers, holding her yellow raincoat tightly around her shoulders.
I continued reading.
She had Evan's smile.
But she also had your eyes.
The first time she looked at me, I realized I couldn't keep telling myself that losing one person meant I had to lose everybody else.
I wanted to call you.
I even picked up the phone.
But I was ashamed of what I'd said.
I didn't know how to tell you that the words I'd used to hurt you were the words I regretted most.
I swallowed.
So I waited.
And the longer I waited, the harder it became.
Then one day, I received your package.
The patch.
Your note said you didn't think you'd earned the right to wear it.
Dad, you never stopped earning that right.
I wanted to mail it back immediately. I wrote a letter explaining everything.
But I didn't send it.
I told myself I'd do it when I could face you.
Then another month passed.
Then another year.
I kept the patch in a little tin beside my bed, and every time Rosie asked about it, I told her it belonged to her grandfather.