Her rules were still there.
She peeled the paper away, leaving four yellowish rectangles of tape.
“I never meant for it to become this,” she said.
Margaret stood at the sink.
“What did you mean to happen when you signed my name?”
Vanessa folded the paper in half.
“We could have been comfortable.”
Margaret turned off the tap.
“I was comfortable. You needed me not to be.”
Vanessa looked down. For once, she had no correction ready.
She left the folded rules beside the fruit bowl. Margaret put them with the other records rather than in the rubbish.
There was no shouting when the children returned from school. Daniel had spoken with a family counselor about what to tell them, and he sat beside them on Margaret’s sofa.
“Grandma didn’t agree to some things we did,” he said. “We made serious mistakes. We’re going to live somewhere else, and the grown-ups will work through the consequences.”
“Did we take up too much space?” the older child asked.
Margaret moved to sit on the rug in front of them.
“No. Not once.”
“But Mom said you wanted your rooms back.”
“I do want my rooms back. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you in them.”
The younger child considered this.
“Can we still use the crayons?”
Margaret swallowed.
“Especially the crayons.”
Daniel looked away, blinking hard.
When moving day came, he carried his boxes outside without asking Margaret to help. The rental had mismatched cupboards and windows facing a parking lot. He complained about neither.
Before taking the last load, he stood in the den.
“Can I put the chair back?”
Margaret was folding the quilt.
“Ask Ruth’s husband to help you. You’ll hurt your back doing it alone.”
He almost smiled at that small, familiar concern. Then he seemed to understand it was not forgiveness, and let the smile go.
They carried the armchair through the doorway without scraping its wooden feet.
