It had been three weeks since Grandfather fell asleep under the olive tree for the last time.
The house felt terrifyingly quiet. The empty wooden chair by the hearth seemed to take up the whole room. Every time Steve heard a footstep on the porch, he looked up, hoping to see Grandfather’s heavy wooden staff. But it was only ever the wind.
The quiet had made everyone tense. Father, used to the strict discipline of the military, threw himself into Grandfather's chores. But his patience was thin.
One afternoon, Steve was supposed to be stacking firewood. His mind was elsewhere, and the stack leaned dangerously to one side. When Father walked by, he stopped and sighed heavily.
"That is sloppy, Steve," Father said sharply. "If you don't build a strong foundation, the whole pile falls. Do it again."
Steve felt a hot flash of anger. "Grandfather wouldn't have yelled at me!"
"I am not yelling," Father said, his voice hard. "I am telling you to do it right."
Mother stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes were red. "Leave the boy alone, Leander. He is doing his best."
"His best is going to fall over and crush the dog," Father snapped back.
"You don't need to bark orders at him like he's one of your soldiers!" Mother raised her voice. "We are all tired!"
Steve froze. It was the first time he had ever seen his parents fight. The anger in their voices terrified him. He thought, without Grandfather here to guide them, the whole family was going to fall apart. He dropped the wood and ran off toward the river.
A few hours later, as the sun began to set, Steve heard footsteps behind him on the riverbank. It was Father. He sat down heavily in the dirt beside Steve and reached into the shallow water, pulling out a perfectly smooth, round river stone.
Father didn't say anything at first. He just rolled the smooth stone between his scarred hands.
"I am sorry I was harsh with you," Father finally said, his voice quiet. "And I am sorry I argued with your mother. I miss him too, Steve."
Steve watched the water rushing past them. "Are you and Mother going to keep fighting?"
Father handed the smooth river stone to Steve. "Do you know how this stone got so perfectly smooth?" he asked. "It didn't start out that way. It started with sharp, jagged edges. But for years, it has been tumbling in the river, constantly crashing and grinding against all the other stones."
Steve ran his thumb over the warm, polished rock.
"When rough stones hit each other, it creates friction. It is violent, and it is uncomfortable," Father explained softly. "But that exact friction is what wears away the sharp edges. Grief makes us all jagged right now. We are going to make mistakes. We are going to frustrate each other. A family is not perfect."
Father put his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Hiding from the friction doesn't fix the stone. Working through our disagreements honestly—crashing against each other but staying in the same river—is what polishes us and brings us closer together."
Father held out his hand. Steve took it, and together they walked back to the house, ready to help Mother.
