“Also, the foster parents will bring her.”
“Fine.”
Margaret paused.
“Mr. Maddox, I want you to understand that this is a first step, not a victory.”
Vincent looked at the grease beneath his fingernails.
“I know.”
When he ended the call, Hector smiled.
“Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
“You think she'll remember them?”
Vincent looked toward the photograph of Rosie that Walter had given Margaret for the case file.
“Kids remember the people who make them feel safe.”
“You sound certain.”
Vincent put the photograph back on the bench.
“No,” he said. “I sound hopeful.”
Saturday morning arrived beneath a pale Montana sky.
Walter shaved twice.
Evelyn changed her blouse three times before settling on a cream-colored one with small blue flowers. She placed Rosie's old photograph in her handbag, along with a folded tissue and a small knitted rabbit she had been working on before Emily died.
They reached the family services center forty minutes early.
Vincent drove them.
Hector followed in his truck, carrying a box of toys Walter and Evelyn had bought the previous afternoon.
At nine twenty-five, a silver SUV pulled into the parking lot.
A woman with blond hair stepped out of the driver's seat. A tall man emerged from the passenger side and opened the rear door.
Rosie climbed out.
She wore a red coat.
For one suspended moment, Walter could not breathe.
The child stood beside the SUV, holding a small backpack against her chest. She looked thinner than she had in the photograph, and her hair was shorter. Her face had lost some of its babyish roundness, but her eyes were unmistakably the same.
Evelyn gripped Walter's arm.
“Rosie.”
The little girl turned.
Her gaze moved across the parking lot and settled on them.
She froze.
Then her backpack fell to the ground.
“Grandpa?”
Walter took one step forward.
“Rosie.”
She ran.
The supervising caseworker hurried after her, calling for her to slow down, but Rosie was already across the pavement.
Walter dropped to his knees.
The little girl collided with him, wrapping both arms around his neck so tightly that he nearly lost his balance.
“Grandpa! Grandpa!”
Walter held her as though the world had finally returned something he had thought was gone forever.
“I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here.”
Rosie began to sob.
Evelyn knelt beside them, tears streaming down her face.
Rosie reached for her.
“Grandma!”
Evelyn gathered her into her arms.
For several seconds, all three clung to one another, speaking in broken fragments that made little sense to anyone else.
Vincent stood beside the entrance.
He had seen men reunite with families after prison sentences. He had seen mothers embrace sons who had returned from war. He had once watched a child run across a hospital waiting room toward a father who had been told he might never walk again.
He had never seen anything quite like this.
There was no performance in it.
No calculation.
Only the desperate relief of people who had been afraid that love might not be enough to keep them connected.
When the caseworker finally approached, she waited until Rosie had stopped crying.
“Rosie, sweetheart, we need to go inside now.”
Rosie shook her head.
“No.”
“We're going to spend some time together in the playroom.”
“I want Grandma.”
“You'll see her inside.”
Rosie tightened her grip on Evelyn's coat.
“Promise?”
Evelyn kissed her forehead.
“I'm right here, darling.”
Inside, the family sat around a low table covered with crayons and paper.
Rosie showed Walter a drawing she had made at school. She told Evelyn about a girl named Madison who liked purple pencils and a teacher who kept a turtle in the classroom.
She asked whether their old apartment still existed.
She asked whether Grandpa still made pancakes on Sundays.
She asked whether the little rabbit she had left at their house was safe.
Walter answered every question carefully.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Yes, we remember.”
“Yes, we still have it.”
He did not tell her that the rabbit was packed in a cardboard box in a storage unit. He did not tell her that the apartment was gone. He did not tell her how many nights he and Evelyn had slept in their car.
Those things belonged to the adults.
Rosie deserved to have a childhood for as long as they could protect it.
Halfway through the visit, she reached into her backpack and took out a folded sheet of paper.
“I made this for you.”
It was a drawing of three people standing beneath a yellow sun. A tall man with gray hair held the hand of a woman with silver hair. Between them stood a little girl wearing a red coat.
Above their heads, Rosie had written three names.
GRANDPA.
GRANDMA.
ROSIE.
Walter stared at the paper.
His vision blurred.
Evelyn pressed her hand against her mouth.
“It's beautiful,” she whispered.
Rosie looked pleased.
“I'm going to make another one when I get home.”
The words struck Walter like a blow.
When I get home.
He glanced at the caseworker, who was sitting near the door.
Rosie did not seem to notice.
She continued talking about school, her toys, and the foster family's dog.
But when the visit ended, she refused to put on her coat.
“No,” she said. “I'm staying with Grandma.”
The caseworker knelt beside her.
“Rosie, you have to come with us now.”
“I want to go with Grandpa.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't!”
The room fell silent.
Rosie's face crumpled.
“I want my mommy.”
Evelyn gathered her into her arms.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I want my mommy, and I want Grandpa, and I want Grandma.”
Walter turned away, unable to watch.