Kaylee spent every summer of her childhood following him around that farm.
She learned to drive in his old Ford pickup out in the hayfield when she was eleven.
The same summer her father stopped calling.
“Grandpa walks really slow now, honey,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “I don’t care. I want it to be him.”
She turned her head and looked at me.
“And Mom? I want it to be just him. Is that okay? I want him to have it all by himself.”
That stung a little. I’ll admit it.
But I understood.
I’d be in the bleachers. I’d see it. And I wouldn’t have to be the one holding her together on the walk across that floor.
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” I said.
The next morning, between my eight o’clock and my nine o’clock patients, I called the activities director at the high school. Mrs. Larson.
