Exactly.
Some lessons take families generations.
One afternoon, Ethan visited carrying yellow roses.
I groaned.
“Not my birthday.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
“Maya’s pregnant.”
I stared.
Then screamed.
Apparently aging does not reduce volume.
Their daughter was born healthy.
They named her Rachel Margaret Cole Singh.
That was their choice.
I cried anyway.
Daniel cried harder.
No one mentioned Samuel.
Good.
Some names do not need preservation.
When little Rachel was five, she asked Ethan why he didn’t have baby pictures.
He answered simply.
“I moved around a lot when I was little, and some things got lost.”
“Why?”
“Adults made mistakes.”
She considered.
“Did you?”
“Many.”
Satisfied.
Child-sized truth.
More later when age appropriate.
No burdening a five-year-old with inherited guilt.
Daniel died before Ethan.
Heart failure.
Eighty-two.
He had spent the last decades differently.
Not perfect.
Better.
His will was straightforward.
No secret tests.
He left Ethan a small bequest.
