He said nothing.
That was another kind of love.
Not every painful memory needs someone rushing in to fix it.
Sometimes you simply need time to stand beside it and realize where you are now.
I sat.
Grace sat beside me.
Dad across from us.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?”
“Mom says you used to be Chief Justice.”
“I did.”
“Were you important?”
He looked at me.
I smiled.
He answered carefully.
“I had an important job.”
Grace considered that distinction.
“Mom says you couldn’t make Dad lose his job.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that wasn’t my decision.”
“But you were Chief Justice.”
“Yes.”
“Then what was the point?”
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my water.
Dad looked offended.
“Excellent question.”
Grace waited.
Finally he said:
“The point of having authority is knowing which decisions are yours and which are not.”
She frowned.
“That sounds boring.”
I pointed at Dad.
