Later, I asked my daughter to help me take out the recycling to the car. It was just an excuse to get her away from Courtney, who I knew wouldn’t volunteer to help. Courtney’s hands had never touched garbage.
“Are you going to yell at me again?” Sydney asked.
“No,” I said. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Mom. I told you, nothing happened!”
“Honey,” I said quietly, “a lot has happened.”
And in that moment, away from her friend, away from the stern gazes of her grandmother, her face crumpled.
“Pop-pop,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s so sad.”
“It is. But he lived a long, happy life.”
“But he never really got to know Courtney.”
“Courtney?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. Of all the things she could have said, could have thought.
I lifted her chin with my hand. Her eyes glistened with tears.
“Mom, he was so excited about her coming and about her hoverboard and all. It was his surprise, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he would have liked her? After they spent more time together and stuff.”
I sighed, swallowed. I tamped down everything that I could have said.
“Yes, honey,” I said. “Of course.”
“I guess we’re not going to do the family portrait again, are we? Without Pop?”
I had completely forgotten. The day had come and gone. The end of an era.
“No, I guess not. It wouldn’t be right, would it?”
“No. But we could do it, couldn’t we? Just you and me and Dad? Maybe next year? Start our own tradition?”
“Yes, honey,” I said. “We can start over.”