He had left deliberately.
Around that same time, Grandpa Walter finished building Nora’s crib.
He spent hours in his garage sanding every edge until the wood was perfectly smooth.
“We’re going to be fine,” he told me.
“You, me, and this baby.”
Then he smiled.
“We don’t need anyone who doesn’t want to stay.”
I believed him.
Grandpa had been right about almost everything in my life.
My parents died when I was ten.
A car accident on a wet road.
