For a moment, she seemed frightened.
Then whispered.
“Mom?”
My chest tightened.
I sat beside the bed.
“It's Grandpa.”
She blinked.
Then looked around.
The unfamiliar room.
The quilt.
The little lamp on the nightstand.
For several seconds, she seemed confused.
Then she began crying harder.
“I want Mom.”
I felt helpless.
I wanted to bring Mara into the room.
Wanted to make the world return to a version where Rosie could call for her mother and hear footsteps in the hallway.
But I couldn't.
So I stayed.
I sat beside her bed.
And waited while she cried.
After a while, she leaned toward me.
I held her carefully.
Then she whispered.
“Do you remember her?”
I closed my eyes.
“Every day.”
“Even when you're busy?”
“Yes.”
“Even when you're fixing motorcycles?”
I smiled sadly.
“Especially then.”
She looked up.
“Why?”
I took a breath.
“Because your mom used to sit beside me while I worked.”
Rosie considered.
Then whispered.
“Like I do?”
I nodded.
“Just like you.”
For several seconds, she remained quiet.
Then her breathing began to steady.
I helped her settle back beneath the quilt.
Before leaving, I asked whether she wanted the hallway light left on.
She nodded.
Then looked toward me.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Don't go far.”
My throat tightened.
“I'll be right down the hall.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
I sat in the chair beside her bed until she fell asleep.
Then I stayed a little longer.
Not because I thought I could protect her from every sadness.
Because being there was something I could actually do.
By early spring, Evelyn was moving more comfortably.
She could manage many ordinary activities again, though she continued her rehabilitation and followed her doctor's guidance.
Rosie returned to her usual routine, with frequent visits to my house and workshop.
I was relieved.
I had enjoyed caring for her.
But I was also glad she could return to the home where Mara raised her.
The little yellow house was full of memories.
Photographs.
Books.
The sewing tin.
And countless ordinary objects that connected Rosie to her mother.
She deserved to keep those things close.
One afternoon, Evelyn and I sat on the porch while Rosie rode her bicycle along the sidewalk.
The older woman looked toward me.
“Raymond?”
I turned.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
I smiled.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
I looked toward Rosie.
For a moment, my eyes filled.
“I should've been here years ago.”
Evelyn shook her head gently.
“Don't.”
I looked toward her.
She continued.
“We've both spent enough time punishing ourselves for what we didn't know how to do.”