“Dad never got to see it like this.”
“No. But he made it because he was excited to meet you.”
“Was he?”
“He talked about you constantly before you were even born.”
For once, I offered him another memory before he had to ask.
Three weeks later, Michael’s rocking chair stood in our living room.
Frank had moved into a smaller home. Nathan kept some tools, Michael’s notebook, and the little drawer. Cole had apologized to Denise, and the boys were still best friends.
They weren’t allowed overnight visits yet, but they were slowly rebuilding trust through honest plans and answered calls.
I was learning that trust had to work both ways.
One evening, Nathan found me sitting beside the rocking chair.
“Does it work, Mom?”
“Come see.”
I rocked gently back and forth.
“Grandpa said Dad once ruined a table because he cut one leg too short,” Nathan said.
