Back at Grandpa’s house, I sat in the kitchen with the photograph. Grandpa had loved me with everything he had. But he had also held on so tightly that he kept others at arm’s length, carrying that weight silently for decades.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Grandpa?” I whispered. “Why didn’t you ever call that number?”
The kitchen stayed quiet. But I already knew. Calling meant admitting he was wrong. He was a man who loved deeply, held on stubbornly, and never found the space between those two things.
I tucked the photograph back into his wallet.
Three days later, Simon was discharged. I drove him home in silence. He asked once if I wanted the radio on. I said no. He nodded.
We were two strangers bound by blood, trying to figure out what to call each other.
At his house, the chipped rooster still sat by the door. Simon paused on the porch before going inside. He turned back once. “Thank you for coming, Amelia. For all of it.”
I nodded. I didn’t have the words yet. But I was starting to find them.
That night, I dialed the number from memory. When Simon’s voice answered, I did what Grandpa never could. I saved it as Dad.
“Dad,” I said, “shall we meet for coffee tomorrow?”
Silence stretched thin. Then I heard quiet crying. “I’d be honored, dear,” he said softly. “I’d be honored.”
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