Interstellar

“Congratulations,” Tom said. “Meet Jesse.”

Cooper smiled, feeling his eyes fill with tears. Knowing that the baby he was looking at now wasn’t a baby anymore.

His grandson…

“I wanted to name him Coop, but Lois said maybe the next one. Grandpa said he already had the ‘great’ part,” Tom went on, “so we just leave it at that…”

The screen cut again, then came back to life. Tom again, maybe a decade older. The boy was gone completely. What Cooper saw now was a weary man holding a lot of weight on his shoulders.

“Hi, Dad,” Tom said. “I’m sorry it’s been a while. What with Jesse and all…”

He paused, a sorrowful expression on his face, and Cooper realized something must have happened to the baby. His grandson. How long had he lived? What had he been like?

“Grandpa died last week,” Tom continued. “We buried him out in the back forty, next to Mom and Jesse.” He looked down. “Where we’d have buried you, if you’d ever come back.” His gaze returned to the camera. “Murph was there for the funeral,” he said. “I don’t see her so much anymore.”

Tom sighed, and his face settled into lines of resignation.

“You’re not listening to this,” he said. “I know that. All these messages are just out there, drifting in the darkness. I figured as long as they were willing to send them, there was some hope, but… you’re gone. You’re never coming back. I’ve known that for a long time. Lois says—that’s my wife, Dad—she says I have to let you go. So I am.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something more, then apparently he decided against it.

Cooper started to reach toward the screen, as if somehow he could ask Tom to stay, to tell him he was alive.

But he couldn’t.

On the screen, Tom reached his hand toward the camera.

“Wherever you are,” Tom said, “I hope you’re at peace.

“Goodbye, Dad.”

The screen went black, but Cooper kept looking at it, wiping the tears from his face, his heart like lead.

Goodbye, Donald, he thought. It was hard to believe Donald was dead. He’d been such a sturdy presence, so much a part of that place. And Cooper had put so much on him—first forcing him to pick up much of what Erin had left when she died, and then the kids themselves. And he had taken the load, quietly—with some commentary, but no real complaint. Not really, all things considered.

He owed the old man a lot, and there was no way to repay him.

Sometimes you have to see your life from far away for it to make sense, he thought. To see what was probably obvious to anyone else.

Goodbye, Tom, he said silently. Goodbye, son…

Of course Murph couldn’t forgive him. Her mother had left her forever, but her mother hadn’t any choice about it. Then her father had left, too. But her father chose to leave her. How could she forgive that?

How could he have not seen it? It had been right in front of him.

Like so many things.

The screen was still dark—the recordings were done. He couldn’t help but touch the screen, his only connection to his family.

And then the screen flashed back on. He pulled his hand back in surprise.

There was a woman looking at him, late thirties, early forties, flaming red hair. Beautiful. She started to say something, and then stopped, looking unsure. Then her eyes settled into a determined expression. It was shockingly familiar.

“Hello, Dad,” she finally said. “You sonofabitch.”

Cooper’s eyes widened.

“Murph?” he whispered.

“I never made one of these when you were still responding, ’cos I was so mad at you for leaving. When you went quiet, it seemed like I should just live with my decision.” She paused, then added, “And I have…

“But today’s my birthday,” she explained. “And it’s a special one because you once told me—”

Her voice caught, and for a moment she couldn’t speak.