“Your dad’s name was Michael,” I
said. “He was nineteen. He loved your mom very much, for one whole summer, and they were so happy. He died in an accident before you were born, before he even knew you were coming. That’s why I could never tell you — because I didn’t know his name, until today.
But this woman knew him better than anyone in the world.
This is Margaret.
She’s Michael’s mother.
She’s your other grandmother, buddy. She’s been looking for us for ten years, because your mom asked her to, so that you’d have all the family you were supposed to have.”
My grandson looked at Margaret. And Margaret looked at my grandson — at her son’s face, I realized, because she was seeing Michael in him, the boy she’d lost, alive again in a ten-year-old who loved baseball.
