Chapter 5
“I understand.”
“I might someday.”
He looked surprised.
“I don’t want you to treat that like a promise.”
“I won’t.”
“And even if I forgive you, things won’t go back to the way they were.”
“I don’t want them to.”
That was the first thing he said that made me believe change might be possible.
Because the old relationship had depended on my silence as much as his.
Neither of us should want it back.
We drank coffee for almost an hour.
When we left, he asked, “Can I call next month?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
His eyes watered.
He looked away quickly.
“Okay.”
“Dad?”
He turned.
“One call.”
He gave a small smile.
“One call.”
Brooke was harder.
Not because I loved her more.
Because I understood her less.
She had been nine when Lenora married my father.
For years, I had thought of her as the favored daughter.
The wanted one.
Only gradually did I understand that being favored inside an unhealthy family system did not mean being free.
Sometimes it meant being recruited.
Four months after the incident, Brooke sent another letter.
This one contained no defense of herself.
She wrote about counseling.
About recognizing how often she had treated disagreement as rejection.
About how desperately she had competed with me for approval neither of us should have had to earn.
Near the end, she wrote: Grandma left me twenty percent of the house.
At first I thought that meant she believed I deserved part of what you had.
Now I think she was telling me something else.
She was leaving me a place where I could belong without taking yours.
I cried when I read that.
Then I became annoyed that Brooke had made me cry.
Then I laughed because Grandma would have enjoyed the entire sequence.
A month later, I agreed to meet Brooke.
We chose a public café.
She arrived early.
Her hair was shorter.
She looked nervous.
Good.
I was nervous too.
“Mara.”
“Brooke.”
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
I sat down.
“I know.”
“I practiced a longer version.”
“Of course you did.”
“It was twelve minutes.”
“That sounds unbearable.”
She laughed unexpectedly.
Then immediately looked guilty for laughing.
I almost smiled.
“Brooke.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re allowed to have a normal conversation.”
Her shoulders lowered.
“Right.”
“But normal doesn’t mean what happened disappears.”
“I know.”
I believed her.
That surprised me.
She wrapped both hands around her tea.
“I hated you for leaving.”
I frowned.
“You told me to leave.”
“I know.”
“Repeatedly.”
“I know.”
“Once you packed my things into garbage bags.”
She winced.
“I remember.”
“So explain that.”
She looked toward the window.
“You leaving proved something I didn’t want to know.”
“What?”
“That leaving was possible.”
The answer silenced me.
“Mom always said family loyalty meant staying,” Brooke continued.
“Then you joined the Marines.
Grandma was proud of you.
Dad bragged about you when Mom wasn’t around.”
“He did?”
“All the time.”
That was new.
Brooke gave a sad smile.
“I thought you escaped and still got to be loved.”
I leaned back.
“And you thought I had stolen something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Permission.”
I understood then.
Not forgiveness.
Understanding.
The two were different.
“I never had permission,” I said.
Brooke looked at me.
“I just left anyway.”
She nodded.
“I know that now.”
When we finished our drinks, she did not ask when she could see me again.
She only said, “Thank you for coming.”
Outside, we stood beside our cars.
“Brooke.”
She turned.
“I’m fixing the porch at Grandma’s next Saturday.”
Her expression changed.
“Do you need help?”
“I need someone who knows how to use a paint scraper.”
“I can use a paint scraper.”
“You once painted a window shut.”
“I was twelve.”
“You painted the glass.”
“I was artistic.”
I laughed.
She smiled.
“Saturday?”
“Ten.”
“I’ll be there.”
That Saturday became another Saturday.
Then another.
We repaired porch rails.
Repainted shutters.
Cleaned the attic.
Ana arrived one weekend with sandwiches and announced that none of us could be trusted with power tools.
Evelyn visited twice.
May you like
The second time, she brought Michael.
The third time, Noah came too.
