After photographs and dinner at my father’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Danny and I sat on Bea’s porch swing and finally talked. He described his journey home for the funeral: hours in a military vehicle, a lengthy weather delay in Germany, and a taxi from Indianapolis that still arrived too late. He also explained why he had left early the previous summer. Returning from deployment had been harder than he could express, and he had not known how to explain his sleeplessness or discomfort at home. For the first time, I understood that his difficulty reconnecting had not meant he loved us less. I admitted something I had kept to myself: I had been invited to accompany my parents to dinner on the night of the accident but had chosen to stay home. Danny held my hand and reminded me that my decision had not caused the collision. Neither of us could change that night, but we could stop carrying our questions alone.
Danny stayed for ten days. He repaired Bea’s faucet, worked in her garden, and took me to the lake and the drive-in we had missed the year before. We also visited our parents’ resting place together, leaving an extra graduation program beneath a stone. When his leave ended, we stood in the driveway where I had once accused him of always going away. He promised to keep calling on Sundays at four, and this time I promised to answer. He told me his military contract would end in eighteen months and that he planned to return home rather than reenlist, hoping to help Bea and build a life nearby. Our graduation photograph now stands on her mantel beside my parents’ wedding picture: me in my gown, Danny in uniform, and Bea holding my hand from her wheelchair. It reminds me of the afternoon we began listening to one another again—and of the handwritten letter that helped bring us together.