the crib in his garage and told me we would be fine, just the three of us.
My parents had died when I was ten, and Grandpa had raised me ever since.
The few belongings I still had from my mother were packed inside a cedar box at the back of my closet—old photographs and letters I had never had the courage to read.
Grandpa drove me to every prenatal appointment.
He cried when the ultrasound technician said, “girl.”
Just after four that afternoon, I turned onto his gravel driveway.
