The days passed.
Roscoe continued working.
He called regularly.
At first, the conversations were short.
He asked about his mother.
He asked about the boys.
Sometimes he asked what I had been doing.
I answered honestly.
I told him about the appointments.
The groceries.
The little things that happened around the house.
I didn't make everything sound easier than it was.
If his mother had a difficult morning, I told him.
If I was tired, I said so.
I stopped pretending that every day was fine.
It was a small change.
But it felt important.
His mother noticed.
One evening, she asked whether I had spoken to Roscoe.
I told her he had called earlier.
She nodded.
"Was he all right?"
"I think so."
She looked at me.
"And you?"
I smiled.
"I'm getting there."
She squeezed my hand.
The boys continued visiting.
The oldest had become quieter around the subject of his grandfather.
The youngest still asked when Grandpa would come home.
The middle one seemed to move on more easily.
Children have their own ways of handling things.
I didn't force them to talk.
I let them ask questions when they were ready.
One Saturday, the oldest brought the pizza box sign downstairs.
He placed it on the kitchen table.
I looked at it.
The cardboard was still bent.
The marker had faded slightly where his hand had rubbed against it.
"Why did you bring that down?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know."
I sat beside him.
He traced one of the letters with his finger.
"Grandpa didn't really look at it."
I swallowed.
"He did see it, sweetheart."
"But he didn't say much."
I nodded.
"You're right."
He looked at me.
"Did he like it?"
I took his hand.
"I think he was too busy making a bad choice to understand how special it was."
The boy considered that.
Then he asked whether Grandpa was still his grandpa.
I felt tears come into my eyes.
"Yes. He is."
"And he still loves us?"
"Yes."
I paused.
"But loving somebody means showing them that they matter."
The boy nodded slowly.
He folded the loose edge of the cardboard.
I gently stopped him.
"Let's keep it flat."
He smiled a little.
I placed the sign on the shelf in the living room.
Not hidden.
Not thrown away.
Just somewhere safe.
A few days later, Roscoe called again.
He told me he was getting closer to the end of his run.
He would be coming home soon.
I said I understood.
He asked whether I needed anything.
I looked around the kitchen.
There were things I needed.
The refrigerator needed cleaning.
The hallway light needed a new bulb.
His mother's supplies were running low.
But I didn't give him a list.
I told him I could manage.
Then I corrected myself.
"I can manage, but I would appreciate some help when you get home."
There was a pause.
Then he said he would help.
I thanked him.
After the call, I sat at the table.
I thought about the woman in the pink hoodie.
I still remembered her standing beside Roscoe.
I remembered the way she held his arm.
I remembered her little laugh when she saw the boys.
Those images hadn't disappeared.
Neither had the sound of Roscoe telling me that a man got lonely.
I wondered how many times he had said something like that to himself.
How many times he had convinced himself that his choices were harmless because he was far from home.
I couldn't answer those questions.
I could only decide what I would accept from that point forward.
His mother asked me to help her with her hair.
I brought the brush.
She sat near the mirror.
I carefully brushed through the strands.
She watched me.
"You're thinking again."
I smiled.
"I do that sometimes."
She laughed.
Then she reached for my hand.
"Whatever happens with my son, don't forget you have a life too."
I looked at her reflection.
"I know."
But I was only beginning to understand it.
That evening, I made supper.
I didn't prepare anything special.
I set three plates on the table for the boys and me.
His mother's plate was smaller.
We ate together.
The house was warm.
The television was on.
The boys were arguing about something unimportant.
And for the first time in a long while, I wasn't counting the days until Roscoe came home.
I was thinking about what I wanted those days to look like.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: When His Blue Truck Finally Returned, I Watched It From the Kitchen Without Running Outside to Welcome Him
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 15 of 20
