I lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering how a man could survive decades of motorcycle accidents and still be defeated by a piece of furniture.
By morning, Travis was laughing at the way I walked.
“You look older than me.”
“I feel older than you.”
He grinned.
“Want some breakfast?”
I looked at his kitchen.
“Depends. Are you cooking?”
He shrugged.
“I can microwave something.”
I shook my head.
“Then I'll eat on the road.”
He laughed.
Before I left, he became serious.
“You doing okay, Ray?”
I looked toward him.
“Sure.”
He studied my face.
“That's not what I asked.”
I sighed.
Travis knew me too well.
He knew I'd been spending more and more time on the road since my wife, Grace, died.
He knew I avoided certain family gatherings.
And he knew that whenever conversations became personal, I found an excuse involving a motorcycle that needed repairs.
I looked toward my helmet.
“I'm fine.”
Travis wasn't convinced.
“You talk to your daughter lately?”
The question tightened something inside my chest.
“No.”
He nodded slowly.
“You should.”
I stared toward the doorway.
“Maybe.”
“Ray.”
I looked back.
He leaned forward in his chair.
“She's not going to wait forever.”
I didn't answer.
My daughter, Claire, was thirty-six.
She lived outside Tulsa with her husband and two children.
I hadn't seen my grandchildren in person for almost eighteen months.
Not because Claire had forbidden me.
Not because we'd stopped loving each other.
But because grief had turned me into a man who kept disappointing people rather than admitting he was hurting.
After Grace died, I withdrew from almost everyone.
I stopped answering family calls.
I canceled visits.
I missed birthdays.
And when Claire finally confronted me about the distance, I said something cruel.
Something I'd been too proud and ashamed to take back.
She told me her children needed their grandfather.
I answered that I'd spent enough years being needed by everybody.
The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to swallow them.
But pride kept me standing there.
Claire stared at me.
Then said quietly, “Okay, Dad.”
She didn't shout.
She didn't cry.
She simply stopped asking me to show up.
That hurt worse than any argument could have.
Since then, we'd exchanged occasional messages.
Holiday greetings.
Brief updates.
Nothing that resembled the relationship we'd once had.
Travis knew all of it.
He looked at me that morning and shook his head.
“Call her.”
I picked up my helmet.
“I will.”
He sighed.
“Before another year gets away from you.”
I didn't answer.
I hugged him.
Then walked toward my motorcycle.