He rented a small apartment above a bakery on the other side of town. He found work repairing medical equipment, a job that required him to listen carefully and follow instructions instead of persuading people to trust him. Every Saturday, he went to counseling.
For the first three months, Betty did not see him.
They spoke only through short letters.
He wrote about the counseling room, the embarrassment of saying certain things aloud, and the strange discovery that he had spent most of his adult life trying to prevent other people from becoming angry with him.
Betty wrote about Frank.
She told Jake how his father used to burn toast because he read the newspaper while cooking. She told him about the time Frank danced with her in the kitchen during a power outage. She told him that when Jake was born, Frank had cried so hard the nurse had to ask him to sit down.
She did not write that she missed him.
She did not write that she loved him.
She wanted the words to become true in a way that did not require her to rescue him.
In the fourth month, Jake asked if he could visit.
Betty agreed to one hour.
He arrived carrying a paper bag from the bakery. He looked thinner, and the nervous habit of rubbing his thumb against his knuckle had returned.
“I brought cinnamon bread,” he said.
“You used to hate cinnamon.”
“I was wrong about that, too.”
The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it.
They sat at the kitchen table. Jake kept his hands visible, resting them beside his coffee.
“I’m not going to ask how you are,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because I know you might not tell me, and I don’t want to make your answer another thing you have to manage.”
Betty studied him. “That is a new thought.”
“I’m having a lot of them.”
She poured coffee into his cup.
He looked toward the hallway. “Have you changed the bedroom?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
The word carried no disappointment.
For an hour, they talked about small things. The bakery. The rain. A broken fence post. When the hour ended, Jake stood.
“I’ll come again if you want me to.”
“I will tell you.”
He nodded.
At the door, he stopped. “Mom?”
Betty waited.
“Did Dad ever forgive me?”
The question was so unexpected that she could not answer immediately.
Frank had been dead for eleven years. Jake had been twenty-two when he walked away from the family after an argument about money. Frank had tried to follow him down the driveway, but Betty had held him back because Jake had shouted that he never wanted to see either of them again.
Three months later, Frank died in his sleep.
Jake had come home for the funeral and stood at the back of the church. He had not spoken to anyone.
