“Yes,” I said. “You will.”
“I know.”
I folded the letter back up and handed it to him.
“I’m not going to tell you it’s okay, Ben,” I said. “Because it’s not. It was never okay. It’s never going to be okay.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll tell you this.” I looked out at the yard. At the balloon. At the maple tree that was dropping its first red leaf onto the grass, right about where the trash bags had been a year ago. “I didn’t forgive you all at once. I don’t think I ever will. I think I’m forgiving you in pieces. A little bit every time you show up. A little bit every time you tell me the truth even when it’s ugly. A little bit every time you hold her.”
He didn’t say anything. He just nodded. His eyes were wet.
