“I am old enough to be honest.”
“You have always been old enough.”
She smiled.
For dessert, we served a blue cake.
My granddaughter asked why it was blue.
“Because your father once said blue cake tasted dishonest,” I told her.
Michael pointed at me.
“I was six.”
“You were dramatic.”
“I was correct.”
The children laughed.
For the first time since the night of the dinner, I felt no shadow beneath the laughter.
Not because the past had vanished.
Because it had stopped demanding to be the center of the room.
Later, after everyone had gone upstairs, Michael and I remained at the table.
The chandelier cast warm circles across the wood.
He touched the place where the deed had been torn.
“I still see it sometimes,” he said.
“So do I.”
“What do you see?”
“A man who thought he could protect his son by keeping the house.”
Michael looked at me.
“And what do you see now?”
“A father who finally learned to open the door.”
His eyes turned wet.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“I should say it more.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
