Her voice was older than I remembered, but not unfamiliar. I could hear wind moving through trees behind her.
I could not speak.
“David?”
“Hi, Rachel.”
There was a pause.
“I didn’t know if you would call.”
“Neither did I.”
Emma sat beside me in the booth, close enough that our shoulders touched. She did not take the phone. She didn’t need to.
“How was the ceremony?” Rachel asked.
“Emma received her commission.”
A breath caught on the other end.
“She did it.”
“She did.”
“I’m proud of her.”
“You should tell her.”
“I will.”
The silence that followed was not comfortable, but it was honest.
Finally, Rachel said, “Did Daniel give you the letter?”
“He did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For the letter?”
“For waiting.”
I looked through the diner window at the parking lot. Trucks moved along the highway, their headlights sliding through the dark.
“I’m sorry too.”
“For what?”
“For making silence the only thing I knew how to offer.”
Rachel exhaled.
“I didn’t know how to come back.”
“Neither did I.”
Emma leaned closer.
“Mom?” she said.
Rachel went quiet.
“Emma?”
“Hi.”
For illustration purposes only
The word held years inside it.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
Emma closed her eyes for a moment. “I got my commission.”
“I know.”
“Dad said you were proud.”
“I am.”
There was a tremor in Rachel’s voice, but she steadied it.
“I should have been there.”
“Yes,” Emma said.
It was not cruel. It was simply true.
“I know,” Rachel answered.
None of us tried to solve twenty years in a diner booth. We spoke about the
