“You had new shoes.”
“They were terrible shoes.”
Dad’s mouth moved slightly.
It was almost a smile.
Vanessa pressed her hands together.
“Do you still have the photograph?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were happy.”
She looked down.
“I was happy with you.”
“You could have told me.”
“I thought you would tell me I was ungrateful.”
“I might have told you to stop acting like a child.”
She laughed through a sob.
“That sounds like you.”
“I am still me.”
“I know.”
She reached toward him, then stopped before touching his hand.
Dad noticed.
After a moment, he turned his palm upward.
Vanessa placed her fingers in it.
They sat that way until the light changed.
When Dad returned to me, his face was tired but peaceful.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“No.”
I waited.
He looked toward the courthouse.
“But I’m not carrying her anymore.”
That was enough.
