“She knew that too.”
Silence.
Then Claire leaned toward him.
“Grandpa.”
Dad’s head turned.
The word had been almost casual.
Perhaps deliberately.
He stared at her.
Claire’s eyes filled.
“I’ve wanted to say that for seven years.”
Dad covered his mouth with one hand.
No one spoke.
My father rarely cried.
I had seen it only twice.
When his brother died.
And when Mom died.
This was quieter.
A tear slid down his cheek and disappeared into the crease beside his mouth.
Claire reached across the table.
Dad took her hand.
That was how sixty years closed.
Not completely.
But enough for people to begin crossing.
Later, we read Rebecca’s letter.
Dad asked me to read it aloud because his hands were shaking.
Dear Dad,
I spent most of my life imagining you.
When I was twelve, I imagined you were a pilot.
At seventeen, I decided you were probably a musician because that seemed romantic.
