Our children eventually learned about their grandfather.

We didn't tell them a simple story.

We didn't say he was a hero.

We didn't say he was a villain.

We told them the truth.

Their grandfather made mistakes.

He left.

He regretted it.

He tried to make amends.

He helped people quietly.

And before he died, he wanted them to know that he loved them.

One afternoon, when the twins were old enough to understand, they asked to see the storage unit.

By then, we had turned the contents into a small memory room in our home.

My daughter picked up the photograph of Frank.

"Was he nice?"

Trevor looked at me.

Then back at her.

"He was complicated."

She frowned.

"What does that mean?"

Trevor smiled.

"It means he made mistakes and tried to fix them."

My son pointed at another photograph.

"Did he love Dad?"

Trevor swallowed.

"Yes."

"Even when Dad was little?"

"Especially then."

The children nodded as though that explained everything.

Then my daughter asked:

"Did Dad love us when we were babies?"

Trevor looked at me.

I knew what he was remembering.

The beach.

The suitcase.

The photograph.

The porch.

The first night.

The rocking chair.

The sleeping babies.

The letter.

He smiled.

"I loved you before I knew how to be your dad."

She smiled.

"Then you learned."

Trevor laughed.

"Yes."

And That Was the Real Ending

People sometimes ask me whether I regret calling Frank that night.

I don't.

Was it risky?

Yes.

Was it complicated?

Absolutely.

Did I know what would happen?

Not remotely.

I only knew that I had just had major surgery, that I had two newborn babies, and that the man who promised to help me had chosen a beach vacation instead.

I needed help.

So I called the only person I could think of who might understand exactly what was at stake.