I wasn't going to change that simply because I was the child's biological grandfather.
Instead, we worked out a plan that allowed me to help while Evelyn recovered.
Rosie would stay with me on certain nights.
Other relatives would assist as needed.
Her school would receive the necessary information.
And Evelyn would remain involved in the decisions concerning her granddaughter.
When Rosie learned she might spend several nights at my house, she looked excited.
Then nervous.
“Will Grandma come back?”
The question hurt.
I knelt beside her.
“Yes, sweetheart. Grandma's having surgery so her hip can work better. Her doctors expect her to recover, and we're following their instructions.”
Rosie looked toward Evelyn.
The older woman smiled.
“I'm not going anywhere permanent, honey.”
Rosie nodded.
But her expression remained uncertain.
So we gave her something concrete.
A calendar.
We marked the surgery date.
The expected hospital stay.
The days when I would pick her up from school.
And the times when she could speak with Evelyn.
Not every date could be guaranteed.
Recovery sometimes changed plans.
But Rosie could see what we knew and what might change.
She studied the calendar.
Then asked.
“Can I call Grandma whenever I want?”
I nodded.
“We'll help you call when she's available.”
She considered.
Then smiled faintly.
“Okay.”
The surgery went well.
Evelyn's recovery required patience, physical therapy, and plenty of complaints about how slowly everything seemed to happen.
Rosie stayed with me during the first part of that recovery.
I discovered that caring for a nine-year-old girl was considerably more complicated than repairing a motorcycle.
There were school lunches.
Homework assignments.
Laundry.
Bedtime routines.
And the constant mystery of why one child needed so many hair ribbons.
I burned toast twice.
Forgot a library book.
And discovered that Rosie preferred her sandwiches cut diagonally.
The first morning, I made scrambled eggs.
She stared at the plate.
“Mom used to make them different.”
I stopped.
For a moment, I felt the familiar sting of failure.
Then I looked toward her.
“How?”
She considered.
“Less cooked.”
I laughed.
“That's something we can fix.”
The next morning, I tried again.
She tasted them.
Then nodded seriously.
“Better.”
I grinned.
“Good.”
Rosie smiled.
For a moment, she seemed pleased.
Then she reached for my hand.
“You're learning.”
I laughed.
“Every day.”
One evening during Evelyn's recovery, Rosie woke from a nightmare.
I heard her crying through the hallway.
I knocked gently on the door.
“Rosie?”
She didn't answer.
I opened it slightly.
She was sitting on the bed, holding Mara's old sweater against her chest.
Her cheeks were wet.
I stepped inside.
“Sweetheart?”
She looked up.