“If Grandma says sorry, do we have to go back?”
The question forced me to think before answering.
“No.”
“But if she’s really sorry?”
“Then we can decide what feels safe and fair. An apology doesn’t erase what happened. It tells us whether someone understands it.”
She nodded slowly.
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Then we still get to be okay.”
Three weeks passed before my mother came to my house.
She did not call first.
I opened the door and found her on the porch holding a paper grocery bag and looking smaller than I remembered. For one irrational second, I wanted to step aside automatically.
Instead, I stayed in the doorway.
“The children are here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I brought cookies.”
“That isn’t an apology.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Then why are you here?”
She looked past me toward the living room, where Lucas was building a tower and Madelyn was reading to her rabbit.
“Because your daughter won’t answer my calls.”
“She’s six.”
“You told her not to.”
“No. She told me she doesn’t know what to say to you.”
Mom’s face changed.
That landed.
“She thinks I don’t love her?”
“I think she knows you love her. She also knows you gave her cousins beds and gave her the floor.”
Rosalind lowered her eyes.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
