Grandpa lowered his hands.
“She remembered me?”
“Always.”
Leilani took his hand.
“Her children knew your name before we knew the names of presidents.”
Grandpa laughed through his tears.
“That’s terrible parenting.”
Everyone laughed.
The tension broke.
Then Leilani said something that silenced him.
“My mother wanted you to know she wasn’t afraid of fire.”
Grandpa’s smile disappeared.
“What?”
“She remembered your jacket.”
He stared at her.
“She remembered you wrapping it around her head.”
Grandpa’s breathing changed.
“You told her not to look.”
His lips trembled.
“I didn’t want her seeing…”
He couldn’t finish.
Leilani squeezed his hand.
“She said whenever she became frightened later in life, she remembered being inside that jacket.”
Grandpa bent forward.
I put my hand on his back.
For years, I had believed I knew the important parts of Henry Carter.
Farmer’s son.
Soldier.
Husband.
Father.
Grandfather.
