“Two girls.”
He took out his phone.
Of course he had pictures.
The oldest, Sofia, was eleven.
The youngest, Mia, was eight.
I stared at one photograph far longer than necessary.
They were standing beside Douglas at a lake.
Douglas looked healthier.
Older than the boy I remembered, but unmistakably himself.
His arms were around his granddaughters.
He was laughing.
Something inside me ached.
Not jealousy.
Not exactly.
It was grief for all the ordinary pieces of his life I hadn’t known.
Birthday cakes.
School concerts.
Christmas mornings.
Broken appliances.
Family arguments.
Sunday dinners.
A thousand unremarkable things that make a life remarkable when gathered together.
“They adore him,” Lucas said.
“I can see why.”
He watched me.
“They know about you.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“What?”
“Not everything.”
“Lucas.”
“Dad started talking about you after Grandma Margaret died.”
Grandma Margaret.
The name made her suddenly real again.
