The treasurer remained in his position.
The president continued organizing rides.
And life carried on.
But I never replaced the patch.
One club member offered to make me a new one.
I refused.
Another suggested covering the empty rectangle with the emblem from a memorable ride.
I shook my head.
Eventually, people stopped asking.
I kept the empty space.
At first, because I was stubborn.
Then because I was ashamed.
And finally, because it was the only honest thing left on the vest.
My daughter had sewn a place over my heart and called it home.
I'd torn it away.
And no amount of riding could make me forget that.
What I didn't know was that my daughter had been carrying a secret when she left.
She was pregnant.
The little girl waiting nine years in the future was already beginning her life.
And my daughter had decided that a man who wouldn't believe her when she spoke the truth wasn't ready to be trusted with her child.
I wouldn't learn that until a Saturday afternoon inside Lou's Diner.
By then, the chance to apologize to her face was gone.
And all I had left was a little girl in a pink raincoat, a patch with a crooked blue star, and an envelope containing words my daughter had written before she died.
I don't remember exactly how long I sat there after the little girl told me I was her grandfather.
Maybe ten seconds.
Maybe a minute.
The waitress later told me it was almost three.
I only remember looking at the child's face and noticing things I should have recognized immediately.
The shape of her eyes.
The way she held her mouth when she was nervous.
And the little crease between her eyebrows whenever she tried to understand something difficult.
My daughter used to make that exact expression.
The girl shifted beside the booth.
"Did I do it wrong?"
I blinked.
"What?"
She pointed toward the patch.
"The sewing."
I looked down.
The stitches weren't perfectly even.
One corner sat slightly higher than the other.
And the silver thread had been pulled a little too tight near the bottom.
It looked almost exactly like the patch my daughter had sewn thirty years earlier.
I laughed.
Then began crying again.
"No, sweetheart."
I touched the blue star.
"You did it perfectly."
She smiled.
Only a little.
Then asked, "Can I sit down?"
I stared at her.
"Of course."