I had thought the picture was about a man in a grey chair.

It was not.

It was about not being the only person underneath.

I held them both against me, and my mother pushed a pillow in under my right arm where the weight was going, and the light was coming in low through the window on the left.

And this time, when my daughter’s hand came out and found my finger, it shut around it and stayed.

Ten years I had waited for that.

Not for a man in a chair, as it turned out, and not for a telephone to be answered, and not for an apology from anybody at all.

For a grip.