Emily looked at her grandfather and my father’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because the sculpture wasn’t the real secret,” he replied. “The secret was something else entirely.”
He opened the bottom drawer of a cabinet and took out several medical documents.
Two months earlier, she had been diagnosed with an early-stage neurological disease. Doctors had warned her that, over time, she might lose dexterity in her hands and begin to experience memory problems.
“Perhaps this is my last sculpture,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was absolutely sure. You have enough to worry about.”
At that moment I understood why Emily always wanted to stay with him.
“Did you know?” I asked my daughter.
Emily nodded.
“One day, Grandpa forgot to end a call, and I overheard what the doctor told him. He asked me not to tell you anything. I stayed with him because his hands trembled at night. I brought him water and made sure he took his medication.”
Nothing I had feared was real.
But the truth turned out to be much more painful.
I knelt in front of Emily and hugged her tightly. Then I looked at my father.
—There will be no more secrets. Especially not secrets that a little girl is expected to keep.
My father nodded.
