And feeling ashamed that she’d turned those feelings against me.
Near the end, she wrote:
You never took Dad away from me, Clara. He was responsible for how he divided his time. I knew that, but I blamed you because it was easier than being angry with someone I couldn’t talk to anymore.
I read that sentence several times.
Then I folded the letter.
I didn’t answer immediately.
I still remembered standing beside the empty space at Table Seven.
I remembered the guests watching.
And the way Vanessa had looked relieved when she thought I would quietly accept the arrangement.
I wasn’t ready to trust her with my feelings again.
But I was willing to believe that she’d finally begun to understand what she’d done.
Several weeks later, I agreed to meet her at Grandma’s house.
Aunt Patricia was there too, helping prepare lunch.
When I arrived, Vanessa was already in the kitchen.
She looked nervous.
“Hi, Clara.”
“Hi.”
She stepped aside to let me through.
Grandma was sitting at the table, peeling an orange with a small kitchen knife.
“Good,” she said when she saw me. “You’re both here.”
Patricia brought out a dish of roasted potatoes.
Vanessa picked up the salad bowl.
I reached for the water glasses.
Nobody asked us to embrace.
Nobody announced that everything was forgiven.
We simply helped get lunch ready.
When the food was on the table, Vanessa noticed that Grandma’s chair was slightly too far from the edge.
She moved it closer.
Then she pulled out the chair beside it.
“Clara,” she said quietly, “would you like to sit here?”
