I stopped.
For a moment, I pressed one hand against the newly sewn patch.
It was exactly where Mara put it when she was eleven.
The same place.
The same crooked letters.
Only the stitches holding it now belonged to another little girl.
I took a breath.
Then read the next paragraph.
When Rosie was three, she asked why her grandpa never came to visit.
I told her we lived too far away.
When she was five, she asked whether you didn't like children.
I told her you loved children.
Then she asked whether you didn't like her.
That was the moment I understood how unfair my silence had become.
My chest tightened.
I told her the truth I could manage.
That you loved me.
That you had saved me.
And that grown-ups sometimes make mistakes so large they don't know how to repair them.
Rosie asked whether you knew how to fix motorcycles.
I laughed and said you could fix almost anything with an engine.
Then she said, “Maybe Grandpa can fix this too.”
I lowered the letter.
Rosie looked toward me.
“That's when she started telling me about your motorcycles.”
I smiled through tears.
“Did she?”
Rosie nodded.
“She said you had one that sounded like thunder.”
I laughed.
“That's probably the old Shovelhead.”
She smiled.
“And she said you once rode a motorcycle into a pond.”
I groaned.
“Oh, she told you that?”
Rosie giggled.
“Did you?”
I sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed harder.
For a moment, the grief loosened.
It didn't disappear.
But it made room for the sound of my granddaughter laughing beside me.
Then I looked down at the next page.
And found the sentence that made me understand why Mara had waited until Rosie was nine.
Dad, I have something difficult to ask.
I'm writing this while I still can, because the doctors have told me the treatment isn't working the way we hoped.
My heart stopped.
I don't want Rosie to spend her childhood wondering whether everybody she loves will eventually disappear.
Evan never got the chance to meet her.
Mom never got the chance to hold her.
And now I'm going to leave too.
But you are still here.
If Rosie wants to know you, please let her.
Don't feel that you owe her a perfect grandfather. She doesn't need one.
She needs somebody who will show up.
I closed my eyes.
I could hear Mara at eleven.
Promise, Dad?
And I could hear myself answering.
Promise.
Then the final words appeared.