Photographs.
Old scarves.
And a bundle of letters tied together with string.
I had never opened the letters.
Some memories hurt too much before you even touch them.
Grandpa went with me to every prenatal appointment.
He sat in waiting rooms reading fishing magazines.
He came into the ultrasound room whenever I asked.
When the technician told us the baby was a girl, Grandpa cried.
“A little girl,” he whispered.
So when I turned onto his gravel driveway that afternoon with Nora finally home, I knew exactly what I expected to see.
For two weeks, Grandpa had been sitting on his porch every afternoon waiting for us.
And there he was.
Rocking chair.
Coffee mug.
Eyes fixed on the road.
The second he saw my car, he jumped up so quickly that his mug fell from the armrest and shattered against the porch.
He didn’t even notice.
“There are my girls!”
I got out and carefully lifted Nora from the car.
Grandpa opened his arms.
“Say hello to your great-grandpa,” I whispered.
I placed her gently against his chest.
I had imagined this moment a hundred times.
I expected him to cry.
I did not expect him to become terrified.
At first, his face lit up.
Then he shifted Nora slightly toward the afternoon light.
His eyes moved over her face.
One blue eye.
One dark eye.
Then her cleft chin.
Suddenly, all the color disappeared from his face.
“Grandpa?”
His hands began shaking.
“Emily…”
His voice sounded wrong.
“Who is her father?”
I laughed nervously.
“You know who her father is.”
Grandpa stared at me.
“Caleb.”
