“Did you return these?” he asked.
“You said you wanted distance.”
“I never said the kids couldn’t receive birthday cards.”
Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it. Her silence told me little about every missing letter, but enough about why she wanted the conversation to end.
I asked the children whether they were hungry. Tony nodded immediately. I led them to the kitchen and sliced the warm focaccia. Emma followed carrying the cards, keeping them close to her chest. We sat by the lemon tree while James and Jessica spoke in low voices in the foyer.
“Did you really bake cakes for us?” Tony asked.
“Every year.”
“That seems sad.”
“Sometimes it was,” I said. “Sometimes I just liked remembering what you might choose if you were here.”
He considered the bread in his hands. “I like chocolate.”
“Then the next time we bake, we can make chocolate.”
Emma looked at me for a long time. “You can’t fix twelve years with bread.”
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t ask you to pretend I could.”
She nodded, and somehow that honest answer brought us a little closer.
James came into the kitchen looking exhausted. Jessica had gone to the car to make phone calls. He asked whether he could speak to me privately. The children remained by the windows, close enough that they would not wonder whether we were making another secret agreement about them.
“Mom, I didn’t know about the letters,” he said.
“Why didn’t you ask me what I wanted?”
“Jessica said you were angry because we wouldn’t let you control the household. I thought distance would help us become independent.”
“You put my things in the rain.”
His face crumpled. “I know.”
“Do you remember what you said?”
He nodded slowly. “I told you there wasn’t room for you anymore.”
“You said it while you carried the box with your father’s photograph. The glass broke when you set it down.”
He sat on the edge of the chair, staring at the floor. “I remember the glass.”
“I kept the photograph. I had it repaired. I couldn’t repair what happened between us.”
“I was wrong.”
I wanted to hold him. I also wanted to ask why those words had taken twelve years. Both feelings lived in me at once, neither canceling the other.
I told him I would not offer them accommodation, but I would help him locate a reputable short-term rental if he needed information. I would not pay for it. His situation was his to manage. Most importantly, we could discuss supervised or agreed family visits that centered the children, not the mansion.
He listened without interrupting. Then he asked, “Could the kids visit you again?”
“If they want to. And if you give them the freedom to decide.”
