“You done?”
I looked around.
“Yes.”
“How does it feel?”
I considered lying.
“Terrifying.”
He handed me a cup.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“It means you know it matters.”
We sat in silence.
Then I asked, “Do you remember the garage roof?”
Daniel groaned.
“You are sixty-two years old and still proud of that?”
“I almost flew.”
“You broke your wrist.”
“Details.”
“You used an umbrella.”
“It was a large umbrella.”
He shook his head.
“You know what I remember?”
“What?”
“Mom yelling at me afterward.”
I frowned.
“Why you?”
“She said I should have stopped you.”
I stared at him.
Daniel smiled sadly.
“I was six.”
Something inside me shifted.
For fifty-six years, he had been trying to stop me from falling.
Perhaps neither of us had ever understood where that instinct began.
“You know,” I said, “you weren’t responsible.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m working on it.”
