“You owe him an apology. And no sleepovers until we’ve rebuilt some trust.”
“I understand.”
I sat down beside him.
“There’s something I owe you an apology for too.”
Surprise flickered across his face.
“After Dad died, I thought keeping our lives normal would help us both.”
“You stopped talking about him.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because every conversation reminded me he wasn’t coming home.”
He folded his hands together.
“Sometimes I forget what Dad sounded like.”
His confession hurt more than I could say.
“Grandpa tells me stories,” he continued. “He remembers things I don’t.”
“I should’ve told you stories too.”
“You still could.”
I got to my feet.
“Come with me.”
***
At the back of my bedroom closet sat a box I hadn’t opened since Michael’s death. I brought it to the bed and removed the lid. Inside lay his notebook, a photograph, his broken watch, and some folded papers.
Nathan picked up a sketch of the rocking chair. Written in Michael’s handwriting across one corner were the words:
