The Nurse Biker said nothing.
“I told everybody that.”
Still nothing.
“She wrote.”
“Yes.”
“He sent them back.”
“Maybe.”
The Biker’s eyes filled.
“I could’ve known him.”
The Nurse Biker looked toward the hallway.
“Yes.”
“I could’ve known she was sick.”
“Yes.”
“I could’ve—”
“Stop.”
The Biker looked at her.
She rarely interrupted grief.
This time she did.
“You can spend the rest of your life listing doors that were closed.”
She nodded toward the hallway.
“There’s one open now.”
The Biker stared.
“That doesn’t erase anything.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“It gives you somewhere to walk.”
He looked toward his grandson’s room.
The Nurse Biker continued.
“Regret is useful if it changes what you do next.”
The Biker looked at the returned letter.
Then folded his hands.
“What do I do next?”
“Read it.”
He had been afraid to.
Now he opened it.
Dad,
I don’t know whether this reaches you.
I hope it does.
I’ve written twice and both came back, so maybe you moved and nobody told me.
I should have tried harder years ago.
You should have too.
I’m angry enough to say that.
I’m also sick enough to stop pretending anger matters more than time.
I have a son.
He is six.
He has my eyes and your stubbornness even though he has never met you, which seems unfair.
He asks why he does not have grandparents.
I keep giving him half answers.
I married the wrong man.
I knew that before I admitted it.
He has never hit me.
I know that sounds like a strange defense.
I am learning that fear can exist without bruises.
I have cancer.
The doctors are trying.
I don’t know what “trying” means anymore.
If I have time, I want to leave.
If I don’t, I need you to know about my boy.
He likes dinosaurs, pancakes, and anything with wheels.
He cries when dogs die in movies but pretends allergies caused it.
He sleeps with one foot outside the blanket.
He hates peas.
He loves birthday candles.
Please do not make him choose between loving me and being angry at me.
If you ever meet him, let him love me without having to defend what I got wrong.
And if you are still angry with me, be angry after you show up.
Love,
Your daughter.
The Biker finished.
Then lowered the paper.
The Nurse Biker looked away.
He did not cry gracefully.
There was no reason to.
His shoulders shook.
He covered his face.
For several minutes, twenty-five years of pride and eight years of silence had nowhere else to go.
Then a small voice came from the hallway.
“Grandpa?”
The Biker looked up.
The Little Boy stood there in pajamas.
His hair flattened on one side.
“What happened?”
The Biker wiped his face.
“Nothing dangerous.”
The child approached.
“Why are you crying?”
The Biker looked at the letter.
“Your mom wrote me.”
The boy became completely awake.
“When?”
“Before she died.”
“What did she say?”
The Biker hesitated.
Then remembered the mother’s line.