“You came back,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Your father didn’t come back,” I said. “You did. Two days later. On your knees. That’s not nothing, Ben.”
He looked away fast. I watched his jaw tighten, the way my dad’s does.
“It’s not enough,” he said.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not enough. Not yet. But it’s not nothing.”
Diane came in February.
She’d written me one letter, in December. It was short. Just one page in her neat school-secretary cursive.
I taught my son that being broken was something to be ashamed of. I taught him to hide. I did that because I was ashamed myself, because I let a man’s leaving convince me that I wasn’t enough. And then I passed that shame down to Ben, and he passed it to you, and you carried it for six years without even knowing what it was. I’m so sorry, Claire. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me. But I’d like the chance to stop being the woman who said what I said in that hospital room. I’d like to try to be her grandmother instead.
