“Not tonight.”
“I thought you had an apartment in California.”
“I canceled it.”
“Why?”
Melissa looked through the glass.
“Because I was planning to take the children away without telling them the truth. I told myself it was for their sake, but I was mostly afraid.”
“Of Daniel?”
“Of becoming like him.”
The older woman said nothing.
Melissa turned around.
“I was cruel to you.”
“Yes.”
“I said you couldn’t manage your own money.”
“Yes.”
“I knew you were paying the bills.”
“Yes.”
Melissa’s chin trembled.
“I hated needing you.”
“That is not the same as hating me.”
“Sometimes it felt like it was.”
“You had choices.”
“I know.”
For a moment, the two women stood with the kitchen between them.
Then Melissa said, “Did you ever hate me?”
The older woman considered the question.
“I hated the way you spoke to me. I hated the way you let Daniel speak for you. I hated that the children learned to look at my hands before they asked whether I was all right.”
Melissa lowered her head.
“But I never hated you,” the older woman continued. “You were frightened, and frightened people can become cruel.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“No.”
“Will you still help with the children?”
“I will help them. That is different from rescuing you.”
Melissa nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
It was the first honest conversation they had ever had.
Three weeks later, the house went on the market.
Before the realtor arrived, the older woman walked through every room with a small cardboard box. She took photographs, her mother’s silver thimble, a chipped blue bowl, and the height marks carved into the pantry door.
Daniel stood in the hallway holding a framed picture.
It showed him at eight years old, missing his two front teeth, standing beside his mother and a stack of lumber.
“You kept this?” he asked.
“I kept everything.”
He looked at the picture.
“I remember that day.”
“You wanted a treehouse.”
“You said we couldn’t afford it.”
“We couldn’t.”
“You gave me the leftover boards anyway.”
“You built it yourself.”
“It leaned.”
“It stayed up for four years.”
He smiled faintly.
She took the photograph from him and placed it in the box.
“Do you remember the blue door?” he asked.
“You promised to build me one.”
“I did.”
“You painted it green.”
“Because we ran out of blue paint.”
“You were nine.”
“I was trying.”
The realtor arrived, and Daniel carried the box to the car.
