For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally I said:
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“I don’t forgive you yet.”
“I understand.”
“But I don’t want you to think I want you gone.”
Walter looked at me.
“I don’t?”
“No.”
His eyes filled.
“I don’t know what to do with that.”
I smiled sadly.
“You can start by not keeping secrets from me.”
He nodded.
“I promise.”
I looked across the yard.
“Why did you really move here?”
He was silent for a long time.
Then he said:
“Because I wanted to be close to you.”
I looked at him.
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
“You could have knocked on my door.”
“I know.”
“You could have said, ‘I’m your grandfather.’”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He looked down at his hands.
“Because the first time I heard you laughing in your backyard, I realized something.”
“What?”
“I had spent my entire life thinking I had lost my granddaughter.”
He swallowed.
“But then I saw you with your children.”
His voice broke.
“And I realized I had found her.”
I looked away.
“I was afraid that if I told you who I was, I’d lose you again.”
