I waited.
For a moment, she returned to examining a photograph.
Then she asked.
“Do you remember what Mom's voice sounded like when she was little?”
My chest tightened.
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She looked toward me.
“What was it like?”
I considered.
“Higher than when she grew up.”
Rosie smiled faintly.
“And she talked fast.”
I laughed softly.
“Very fast.”
She looked down.
“Did she ever yell?”
“Oh, yes.”
Rosie's eyes widened.
“Really?”
I smiled.
“When she was thirteen, she yelled at me because I wouldn't let her ride her bicycle in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
The little girl giggled.
“Was she mad?”
“Furious.”
“What did she say?”
I pretended to think.
“She said I was the most unreasonable father in Wyoming.”
Rosie burst out laughing.
Then she became quiet.
For several seconds, she stared toward the photograph.
Finally, she whispered.
“I miss her.”
I nodded.
“Me too.”
Her eyes filled.
“Sometimes I get mad at her.”
I looked toward her.
She continued.
“Because she left.”
I took a breath.
“That's okay.”
Rosie shook her head.
“No, it isn't.”
I leaned forward.
“Sweetheart, being angry doesn't mean you stopped loving her.”
She looked up.
For a moment, she seemed uncertain.
I continued.
“When somebody we love dies, we can feel lots of different things. Sad. Frightened. Angry. Sometimes all at once.”
Her bottom lip trembled.
“Do you?”
I nodded.
“Every day.”
She stared.
Then whispered.
“Are you mad at Mom?”
I considered.
“Sometimes I'm angry about the years we lost.”
Rosie looked down.
I continued.
“But I know she loved me. And I know I loved her.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then I said.
“I think she would want us to be able to talk about the hard parts without feeling guilty.”
Rosie nodded slowly.
Then she climbed into the chair beside me.
I put one arm around her.
We sat together for nearly an hour.
Sometimes we talked.
Sometimes we looked at photographs.
And sometimes we simply listened to the quiet house.
It wasn't a magical morning.
The grief didn't disappear.
But Rosie didn't have to carry it alone.
Later that afternoon, we visited Mara's grave.
Evelyn came with us.
She brought a small wreath.
Rosie carried yellow flowers.
I carried a photograph taken at the school family-history exhibition.
It showed Rosie standing beside her display, with Evelyn on one side and me on the other.
My smile looked tired.
Her eyes looked bright.
And the little patch over my heart was clearly visible.
We stood beside Mara's headstone.
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Then Rosie placed the flowers carefully.