Then she whispered, “I love Mom. But I’m angry with her.”
I pulled out the chair beside me.
“You’re allowed to feel both.”
She sat down.
“I wish everything could be how it was before.”
I looked at the bowl of cookie dough, at the flour dusting her sleeve, at the little wrinkle between her eyebrows.
“So do I sometimes,” I admitted. “But maybe we can make something good out of what we have now.”
She leaned against my shoulder.
“Can we still have Sunday dinners?”
I kissed the top of her head.
“Of course.”
Her face brightened.
“Even if Dad comes?”
I thought about my son.
About the man who had told me to leave my own home.
About the boy whose height was still recorded on the pantry door.
“Yes,” I said. “When we’re both ready.”
Rebuilding our relationship took time.
Daniel started visiting without asking for anything.
He fixed the loose gate at the side of the house. He cleared leaves from the gutters. When the furnace needed servicing, he recommended a technician and let me make the arrangements myself.
He stopped telling me what I should do.
He started asking what I wanted.
Sometimes we had coffee on the porch.
Sometimes we sat in silence.
One afternoon, he brought an old photo album he’d found while unpacking.
Inside was a photograph of Peter and me standing on our wedding day, both laughing so hard that neither of us was looking at the camera.
Daniel studied the picture.
“Was Dad ever afraid of losing you?”
I smiled.
“Of course. We both were.”
