One Saturday, we sat at the dining table sorting through old photographs.
Emily picked up a picture of Arthur holding Rusty.
“Grandpa always made that dog sit beside him at dinner.”
I smiled.
“He used to say Rusty had better manners than most people.”
Emily laughed.
Then her expression changed.
“Grandma, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you hate Dad?”
I set down the photograph.
“No.”
“Even after what he did?”
I thought carefully.
“I hate what he did. I’m angry with him. And I don’t trust him the way I used to.”
She twisted a loose thread on her sleeve.
“But you still love him?”
“Yes.”
Emily looked confused.
I reached across the table.
“Love doesn’t mean allowing someone to hurt you. And being related to someone doesn’t mean they get unlimited chances to treat you badly.”
She nodded slowly.
“I still love him, too.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“But sometimes I don’t want to see him.”
“That’s allowed.”
Her eyes filled.
“I thought you’d be disappointed in me.”
“Oh, Emily.”
I moved beside her and wrapped my arms around her shoulders.
