“Did you tell Jeremy?”
“I told him his father loved him. Jeremy said I was making excuses. After his father died, he wouldn’t talk about those years.”
She began crying.
“I should’ve told him about those Saturdays anyway.”
I looked toward our bedroom.
“There’s something carved underneath the airplane,” she said.
I found the towel.
Unwrapped it.
The little plane had two finished wings.
Smooth edges.
A polished wooden tail.
I turned it over.
Four words.
“FOR JEREMY. ALWAYS DAD.”
I sat on the floor and cried.
That afternoon, I carried the airplane when we visited Jeremy.
He smiled at the stroller.
Then saw what I was holding.
“Why did you bring that?”
“Your father finished it.”
His smile vanished.
“No.”
“After you stopped knocking.”
