He uses a walker more often.
His voice is quieter.
His hands shake more.
But he still walks on the beach.
Every morning.
Mom beside him.
A physical therapist helping several days a week.
I visit every other weekend.
We sit on the porch together.
Sometimes we talk.
Mostly we watch the ocean.
Last month was Mom and Dad’s fifty-first anniversary.
No huge party.
They still hate those.
Just family.
Fiona came with the boys.
When she arrived, she sat in her car for a long time.
Eventually, she climbed the porch steps.
Dad waited at the top with his walker.
“Hi, Daddy.”
He stared at her.
Then released one hand from the walker.
His arm trembled as he extended it toward her.
Fiona climbed the final steps and walked into his embrace.
My father—the man who rarely hugged anyone—held his daughter.
“I’m sorry,” she kept saying.
“I know, Fee.”
“I know.”
That evening Mom brought out the four crystal glasses.
The same ones Fiona had once used during that terrible afternoon.
This time, Mom filled them with sparkling cider.
One for Dad.
One for Fiona.
One for me.
One for herself.
We stood on the porch while the sun disappeared over the Pacific.
“To fifty-one years,” Mom said.
We raised our glasses.
Then Dad lifted his trembling hand.
Cider spilled slightly over the rim.
“To Lucas.”
His voice was quiet but steady.
“Who gave us our someday.”
“And made sure nobody could take it away.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Then Dad turned toward Fiona.
“And to Fiona.”
“Who came back.”
She started crying.
Then Dad looked toward Owen.
“And Owen.”
“Who said no first.”
Owen stared at his shoes.
“It wasn’t that big a deal, Grandpa.”
Dad shook his head.
