Brian returns within fifteen minutes; he must have run the whole way to our house and back and I feel a rush of gratitude. That he loves Sophie that much. That he understands a five-year-old’s impulsiveness so well.

Removing training wheels turns out to be remarkably easy. Within minutes, Brian has tossed the wheels into the grass, and Sophie is back on her bike, feet flat on the ground as she tightens the straps of her red helmet and regards us solemnly.

“I’m ready,” she declares.

And I have a moment, my hand pressed against my stomach, thinking, But I’m not. I’m really not. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she was this tiny little baby that fit on the curve of my shoulder? Or maybe a careening ten-month-old, taking that first wild step? How did she get this tall and where did all those years go and how do I get them back?

She’s my whole world. How will I handle it if she falls?

Brian is already stepping forward. He instructs Sophie to mount her bike. He has one hand on the handlebars, keeping them straight, another hand on the back of the banana seat to hold the bike steady.

Sophie sits on the seat, both feet on the pedals. She appears both somber and fierce. She’s going to do this, it’s only a question of how many crashes until she gets it right.

Brian is talking to her. Murmuring some instructions I can’t hear, because it’s easier if I stand back, distance myself from what is about to happen. Mothers hold close, fathers let go. Maybe that’s the way of the world.

I try to remember again my first experience without training wheels. Did my father help me? Did my mother come out to witness the event? I can’t remember. I want to. Any kind of memory of my father providing words of advice, my parents paying attention.

But I come up blank. My mother is dead. And my father made it clear ten years ago that he never wanted to see me again.

He doesn’t know he has a granddaughter named Sophie. He doesn’t know his only child became a state police officer. His son died. His daughter, he threw away.

Brian has Sophie lined up. The bike is trembling a little. Her nervousness. Maybe his. They are both wired, intent. I remain on the sidelines, unable to speak.

Sophie starts to peddle. Beside her, Brian breaks into a jog, hands on the bike, assisting with balance as Sophie gains momentum. She’s going faster. Faster, faster.

I hold my breath, both hands clenched into fists. Thank God for the helmet. It’s all I can think. Thank God for the helmet and why didn’t I cocoon my entire child in bubble wrap before letting her mount up?

Brian lets go.