“Sure.”
He turned toward the empty space beside the sofa.
“Hi, Sarah! I'm Tucker!”
Angie covered her mouth.
Ron looked toward the ceiling.
Tucker pointed proudly at the pretend motorcycle.
“This is mine. It has a horn.”
He pressed it.
Squeak.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you think she heard?”
I swallowed.
“I don't know, buddy.”
He nodded.
“That's okay.”
Then he smiled.
“I bet she would've liked it.”
I stared at him.
“Yeah.”
I looked toward Sarah's photograph.
“She would've loved it.”
That evening, when I returned home, I did something I hadn't done in eight years.
I took the photograph out of my vest and placed it on the living room mantel.
Not hidden in a pocket.
Not tucked inside a drawer.
Out where I could see it.
Then I placed a photograph of Tucker wearing his miniature leather vest beside it.
I stood back.
For a moment, I felt guilty.
The feeling came automatically.
As though two photographs beside each other meant I was comparing the children.
As though caring for Tucker required me to love Sarah less.
Then I remembered Tucker's voice.
Then you can feel sad with me.
I looked at Sarah's smile.
Then at Tucker's.
And I understood something I'd been too frightened to accept.
Grief and love were not opposing forces.
They could exist together.
My daughter was gone.
Nothing could change that.
But I was still alive.
And my heart had not become useless simply because it had been broken.
I sat on the sofa and looked at the photographs until the room grew quiet.
Then I picked up my phone.
For the first time in nearly a year, I called my former wife.
She answered after several rings.
“Hello?”
I swallowed.
“Hey.”
There was a pause.
Then her voice softened.
“It's good to hear from you.”
I looked toward the mantel.
“There's something I wanted to tell you.”
She listened.
I told her about the diner.
The little boy.
The seven dollars and forty cents.
The motorcycles.
The fundraiser.
And the photograph.
I explained that Tucker had asked about Sarah.
Then I told her what he'd said.
Then you can feel sad with me.
For several seconds, there was no sound on the line.
Then I heard her crying.
I closed my eyes.
“I'm sorry.”
She answered immediately.
“Don't be.”
Her voice trembled.
“I'm glad somebody said that to you.”
I looked down.
She continued.
“You've been carrying her all by yourself for so long.”
I swallowed.
“I thought I had to.”
“I know.”
We were quiet.