Vincent stared at his coffee.
“A mother. A father. A younger brother.”
“Are they still alive?”
“My father died years ago. My mother died when I was twenty. My brother died before that.”
Evelyn's expression changed.
“I'm sorry.”
Vincent nodded once.
He expected the conversation to end there.
Instead, Walter asked, “Did you have anyone to help you afterward?”
The question caught him off guard.
Vincent remembered the years that followed his mother's death: the rented rooms, the fights, the motorcycles, the nights when he had slept in his clothes because he had nowhere else to go.
He remembered men who had offered him money and expected obedience in return.
He remembered the first time he had been arrested and the last time he had seen his father.
He remembered being so angry that he had mistaken loneliness for freedom.
“No,” he said.
Walter looked down at his plate.
“I'm sorry for that, too.”
Vincent's throat tightened.
He picked up his coffee.
Across the table, Hector watched the exchange without speaking.
For years, he had believed Vincent's silence was an expression of strength. Now he wondered whether it had always been a kind of shelter.
And whether the old couple had somehow found the door.
The first photograph Margaret Collins obtained from the child welfare department showed Rosie standing beside a schoolteacher.
She wore a yellow sweater, dark trousers, and an expression of solemn concentration. Her hair had been brushed neatly, and her hands were folded in front of her.
The accompanying report stated that she was adjusting well to her foster placement.
A second report described her as quiet, cooperative, and increasingly comfortable in her new environment.
A third mentioned occasional nighttime crying.
Margaret read the reports twice.
“There's nothing here that supports a permanent suspension of contact,” she told Vincent and the Harpers during their next meeting. “There are concerns about her emotional adjustment, but no documented finding that visits with her grandparents are harmful.”
“Then why can't we see her?” Walter asked.
“We need the full case file before we can answer that.”
Margaret turned to the next document.
It was a report submitted by the foster parents, Daniel and Susan Whitmore.
They described Rosie as a sweet child who had begun settling into their household. They said she had difficulty sleeping and sometimes became upset when reminded of her mother.
They also wrote that she had asked repeatedly to visit her grandparents.
The report did not claim that the visits caused her distress.
It simply stated that the requests were difficult to manage.
Margaret placed the paper on the table.
“That's important.”
Walter leaned forward.
“She asked for us?”
“Yes.”
Evelyn covered her mouth.
“How many times?”
“The report doesn't specify.”
Walter stared at the page as though the words might change if he looked long enough.
For six weeks, he had imagined Rosie forgetting him.
He had pictured her learning to live without them, finding new routines, new comforts, and new people to call when she was frightened.
The thought had hurt more than he could explain.
Now he learned that she had been asking for them, too.
He pressed a hand against his eyes.
Evelyn began to cry silently.
Vincent looked away.
He had never been good at watching people suffer when he could not immediately make the suffering stop.
Margaret continued.
“The foster parents have expressed interest in adoption. That's not unusual, but it means we need to clarify the department's long-term plan.”
“Are they trying to take her away from us?” Walter asked.
“We don't know. We shouldn't assume their intentions. They may genuinely care about Rosie and believe adoption would provide stability.”
“But she's our granddaughter.”
“Yes. And that matters. It doesn't automatically decide the outcome, but it matters.”
Margaret closed the file.
“I want to meet Rosie if the department permits it. I also want an independent assessment of your proposed living arrangements. If you can demonstrate that you have a stable home and a realistic plan for her care, that will strengthen your position.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What about the suspension?”
“I'll request an expedited review and a supervised visit.”
“Request?”
“Mr. Maddox, I understand your frustration. But I can't order the department to do anything merely because I want it done.”
Vincent sat back.
“All right.”
Margaret studied him.
“You're taking that surprisingly well.”
“I'm trying something new.”
“What's that?”
“Listening.”
For the first time, Margaret laughed.
The following morning, Hector drove Walter and Evelyn to their housing appointment while Vincent visited the motorcycle shop he owned with Hector.
The shop had been established twelve years earlier, after Vincent decided that the club needed a legitimate business capable of providing steady employment. It repaired motorcycles, restored older engines, and supplied parts to independent mechanics across Montana.
The work had given several club members a reason to build lives beyond the road.
It had also taught Vincent something he had never learned as a young man.
Stability was not something a person found.
It was something a person built, one ordinary decision at a time.
That afternoon, he received a call from Margaret.
“The department has agreed to a supervised visit,” she said. “Saturday morning, at their family services center.”
Vincent stood beside a motorcycle lift.
“When?”
“Nine thirty.”
“Can the grandparents attend?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“There's a condition.”
“What?”
“The visit will be supervised by the assigned caseworker. The Harpers must not discuss the legal proceedings with Rosie, and they must not make promises about where she'll live.”
Vincent glanced toward Hector, who was listening from the next workbench.
“Understood.”