“Yes.”
“What if this can’t be fixed?”
The grandfather swallowed.
“Then maybe it can be lived with.”
She looked back at him.
That answer seemed new.
She said:
“I came to the diner two weeks ago.”
He froze.
“What?”
“You were there.”
His chest tightened.
“You saw me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come inside?”
She gave a tired laugh.
“I did.”
“What?”
“I sat at the counter.”
The grandfather searched memory.
Saturday.
Crowded.
He had been arguing with his friend about carburetor tuning.
A woman in a brown coat at the counter?
Maybe.
He did not remember.
His daughter saw his face.
“You didn’t recognize me.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
She looked older suddenly.
Not physically.
Tired in a way children never understand in parents.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“My daughter started asking about grandparents.”
The grandfather stared.
“She knows her father’s parents.”
“Not you.”
“I told myself that was fine.”
“That you had chosen the club.”
“That you had stopped trying.”
“Then I realized…”
She paused.
“What?”
“That I had spent half my life telling a story about you based on the worst week we ever had.”
The grandfather looked down.
“It was a bad week.”
“It was more than a week.”
“Yes.”
She continued.
“You weren’t there when Mom collapsed.”
His throat tightened.
“No.”
“You were out riding after fighting with her.”
“Yes.”
“You missed my calls.”
“Yes.”
“You came to the hospital and acted like telling me you were ‘on your way’ was enough.”
“Yes.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“You defended everyone except me.”
The grandfather’s eyes filled too.
“Yes.”
She turned away.
“I needed you to say you should have been there.”
“I should have been there.”
She closed her eyes.
“I needed that twenty years ago.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She looked back.
“You don’t know.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
Silence.
She continued.
“Then I told you to leave me alone.”
“You did.”
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
“For twenty years.”
The grandfather stared at his hands.
“That was cowardice.”
She seemed startled.
He continued.
“The first year, I called it respecting you.”
“The second year, I called it dignity.”
“After that, I stopped naming it.”