“I’m meeting my first granddaughter.”
Both men smiled.
“Congratulations,” Henry said.
“Thank you. I’ve already seen enough photographs to fill an album.”
I pulled out my phone almost immediately.
Baby Rose.
My granddaughter.
Sleeping with one tiny fist tucked beside her cheek.
I had waited months to hold her.
The trip meant more to me than I had admitted to Marianne, my daughter.
It was also my first long trip alone since Steven died.
My husband and I had traveled together for thirty-four years.
Airports.
Hotels.
Rental cars.
Lost luggage.
Wrong exits.
Steven always made everything feel easier.
He died the year before, and even though I had learned how to manage without him, there were moments when his absence felt startlingly physical.
Boarding that plane alone had been one of them.
Marianne had called twice that morning.
“Mom, you’re sure you have everything?”
“Marianne, I’m sixty-one, not six.”
