Still, he rarely complained.
One afternoon, I found him sitting beside the living room window, watching a father help his daughter learn to ride a bicycle across the street.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, but his eyes remained on them.
“I spent most of my life believing there would always be more time.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
He finally looked at me.
“Family. Forgiveness. Honesty.”
I sat beside him.
“Is there someone you need to call?”
“There are people I could call,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they would be family.”
I wanted to ask more, but I could tell he wasn’t ready.
Instead, I made tea.
