“Because whenever I mentioned Rosie, you looked so sad. I even drew a picture of all four of us once, but I threw it away. I thought it might upset you.”
I’d stayed silent to protect Tessa. She’d done the same for me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Tessa squeezed my hand. “I wish we’d spoken about her more.” I glanced at the manuscript. “There’s something I haven’t figured out about your father’s book. Why he spent so many years writing about the life Rosie never had.”
Tessa considered. “Maybe he wanted to know her too. And maybe that’s how he tried to heal from losing her.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
After dinner I walked her to the door. “Can I read the rest when you’re finished?”
“Of course.”
“And Mom? I don’t need you to have every answer. I never did.”
I hugged her. “That’s fortunate, because I’m running short.”
That night I returned to the manuscript. I read about Rosie leaving for college and calling home after ruining her laundry. Then I turned a page, and the heading had changed.
Tessa’s First Bicycle.
I frowned. This wasn’t part of Rosie’s imagined life. I began reading.
Tessa was seven when Helen decided she was ready to ride without training wheels.
I remembered that afternoon. Walter had wanted to wait. I’d insisted she could manage. Tessa fell twice before she rode across the driveway. Walter described me running beside her, shouting encouragement. Then came the moment Tessa turned around.
“Did you see me, Daddy?”
I saw her, Walter had written. And I saw Helen laughing as she ran after our girl.
I turned the page. The Birthday Cake Disaster. Tessa was ten. She’d mistaken salt for sugar while baking Walter’s birthday cake, and he’d eaten two bites before admitting something was wrong. I laughed until my eyes watered.
The next heading read The Day Helen Sang Again. Walter wrote about Tessa making up silly words to a song while I washed dishes. I’d joined in without realizing it. He’d stood in the doorway, listening.
I’d forgotten how much I missed hearing Helen sing.
I stopped. The first half of the manuscript imagined the life Rosie never had. The second half recorded the life we’d actually lived. Walter hadn’t forgotten Tessa. He’d been writing about both daughters.
The final pages held a letter.
Helen,
I was afraid you’d read the beginning and think I wanted that life more than ours. I didn’t.
I lowered the page. “Then why didn’t you tell me, Walter?” I looked at his empty chair before reading on.
I wanted Rosie to grow up. I wanted to hear her argue about homework and complain about my cooking. But I never wished Tessa away. When she was born, I loved her for who she was. Not because she could replace anyone.
I remembered Walter carrying Tessa around the house as a baby, making up songs because he’d forgotten every lullaby he knew. “You certainly loved making a fool of yourself for her,” I whispered.
I wrote about Rosie because I wanted to imagine the things we’d missed. I wrote about Tessa because I didn’t want to forget the wonderful things we had. And I wrote about you because, even when we couldn’t talk about everything, I loved the life we made.
Below that he’d added: I wish I’d been brave enough to show you.
I touched the last sentence. “You could have shown me, you stubborn man.”
I remembered walking out when Tessa tried to tell me something painful. This time I picked up my phone and called her.
“Can you come over tomorrow?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes. But there’s something in your father’s book I want you to read.”
“Did you find something else?”
“I found something about us.”
She was quiet a moment. “Then I’ll come after lunch.”
Tessa came the next afternoon. I handed her the final chapters. She read about her bicycle, her ruined cake, and the afternoon Walter heard me singing. Then she reached his letter. When she finished, she wiped her cheeks.
“He remembered all of that?”
“Apparently your father remembered more than either of us gave him credit for.”
She smiled. “Do you think he wished Rosie was here instead of me?”
I moved closer. “No, sweetheart. He wished both his girls were here.”
Tessa leaned against my shoulder. I opened the manuscript again. “There’s one chapter I haven’t read yet.”
She looked at the heading. The Day You Came Home.
“Did Dad really remember the day I was born that clearly?”
“He forgot where he parked the car that morning,” I said.
Tessa laughed. I turned the page.
“But I think he remembered everything else.”
She pulled her chair closer, and we began reading together.
