“I know.”
“I should've tried again.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Maybe.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she continued.
“But she wanted you to hear this because she didn't want your last memory of her to be the worst thing she ever said.”
I looked toward the screen.
For a long time, I sat quietly.
Then whispered.
“Thank you.”
Evelyn nodded.
And together, we watched the recording again.
The next morning, I found Rosie sitting at the kitchen table.
She was drawing something.
I poured a cup of coffee.
Then sat across from her.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
She looked up.
“Morning, Grandpa.”
I smiled.
“What're you working on?”
She hesitated.
Then turned the paper toward me.
It showed three people.
A little girl.
A tall biker.
And a woman with long brown hair.
Above them were three names.
ROSIE. GRANDPA. MOM.
I stared.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Rosie watched me.
Then asked.
“Is it okay?”
My eyes filled.
I nodded.
“It's beautiful.”
She smiled.
Then pointed toward the woman.
“Mom's in the middle because she found us.”
I looked toward the picture.
For several seconds, I remained quiet.
Then answered softly.
“Yes.”
Rosie considered.
“Do you think she'd like it?”
I smiled through tears.
“She'd love it.”
The little girl nodded.
Then returned to coloring.
For a moment, I watched her.
The careful way she held the pencil.
The little wrinkle between her eyebrows when she concentrated.
And the faint humming that rose from her throat as she worked.
Mara's humming.
Linda's patience.
Evan's smile.
So many people I loved were present in this small child.
Not as replacements.
Not as ghosts.
But as pieces of a family that hadn't disappeared simply because some of its members were gone.
I looked toward my coffee.
Then made a decision.
I wasn't going to spend the rest of Rosie's childhood living nine hundred miles away if I could responsibly change that.
I didn't know exactly how.
But for the first time in years, I wanted a future badly enough to start making plans.
Moving closer to Rosie wasn't as simple as packing my tools into a truck.
I owned a repair shop in Casper.
Seven people depended upon that business for their paychecks, including two mechanics who had worked beside me for more than twenty years.
Bishop had a financial interest in the shop, and several customers had motorcycles stored there while we completed complicated restoration projects.
I couldn't simply abandon those responsibilities because my heart wanted to be somewhere else.
So I went home and began making a plan.
The first conversation was with Bishop.