Neither did I.
She looked at me.
“I’m glad you came home.”
“So am I.”
She returned to her table.
Elaine joined me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
I looked toward Nia.
She was laughing.
Both hands visible.
Open.
Free.
“Yes.”
Years passed.
The story of the bucket faded inside family.
It did not disappear.
At Nia’s baby shower, Zoe gave her a gray plastic bucket filled with diapers as joke.
Everyone who knew froze for half a second.
Then Nia laughed so hard she cried.
She held it up.
“Full circle.”
I nearly objected.
Then stopped.
It was her story.
She could joke.
That mattered.
When her daughter Amara was born, I became grandfather at fifty-nine.
I held her and remembered holding Nia after Alana died.
Five years old.
Asleep against my chest.
Terrified I would fail her.
I had.
In some ways.
And succeeded in others.
That was parenthood.
Not a perfect record.
A willingness to repair.
When Amara turned six, she spilled juice across my rug.
She froze.
Tiny body waiting.
I said:
“Get towel.”
She stared.
“That’s it?”
“What did you expect?”
She shrugged.
Nia watched from kitchen.
I understood.
I crouched.
“Accidents cost towels, not love.”
Amara smiled.
She got towel.
Nia looked away because she was crying.
Later she hugged me.
“For what?”
“Nothing.”
I knew.
At seventy, I retired.
My construction firm gave me plaque.
Elaine gave me trip.
Nia gave me a small framed photograph.
The old living room.
Before we replaced floor.