Hated cooked carrots.
Loved dogs, especially the ugly ones nobody wanted to adopt.
And believed that every motorcycle should have a name.
She had named her father's old bicycle Rocket, although the tires had been flat for months.
She talked with her hands.
Exactly like my daughter.
When she became excited, her words ran together so quickly that I sometimes had to ask her to slow down.
She never seemed offended.
She simply started again.
The grandmother watched us from across the booth.
Her expression remained cautious.
I understood.
She'd spent nine years watching my daughter build a life without me.
She'd watched her become a wife.
A mother.
Then a widow.
And finally a woman facing an illness nobody could promise to cure.
The grandmother had seen things I hadn't.
Held her during appointments.
Helped raise the little girl.
And sat beside her when the treatments became too exhausting.
She had every reason to question whether I deserved a place in the child's life.
After lunch, the little girl asked if she could show me something.
She opened her backpack.
Inside was a small sewing kit.
Several pieces of fabric.
And a pink notebook decorated with stars.
She placed the notebook on the table.
Then opened it.
The first page showed a crooked drawing of a motorcycle.
Beside it were two stick figures.
One enormous.
One small.
The little girl pointed toward the larger figure.
"That's you."
I smiled.
"Looks just like me."
She laughed.
"You don't have blue hair."
I studied the drawing.
"Maybe I should."
She giggled.
Then pointed toward the smaller figure.
"That's Mom."
I swallowed.
The next page showed a black leather vest.
The blue star.
And a photograph of my daughter sewing at a kitchen table while the little girl watched.
I stared.
"She taught you?"
The child nodded.
"Before she got really sick."
Her voice softened.
"She said I had to learn to make little stitches first."
I looked toward the grandmother.
The older woman nodded.
"Your daughter spent months helping her practice."
The girl turned another page.
It contained rows of uneven stitches.
Some too tight.
Some too loose.
Others crossing over one another.
Then, gradually, the rows became straighter.
I studied them carefully.
She'd practiced for months.
Not because anyone wanted her to perform a trick in front of strangers.
Because her mother had taught her the meaning of the patch.
And because the child wanted to finish something her mother couldn't.