It’s been a little over a year now.
My parents still don’t speak to me. I’ve made my peace with that, most days. On the days I haven’t, I read my grandfather’s letter again. It lives in my nightstand drawer now, next to the photo of us on the porch.
Chloe and I aren’t perfect. We have a lot of years of our parents’ stories to undo. Some days it’s easy. Some days one of us says something the old way, and the other one goes quiet, and we have to start over.
But every Sunday, she and Vance and Wren come to the house for dinner.
We eat at my grandfather’s table. Vance fixed the wobbly leg. He also fixed the porch railing, and the back gate, and last month he and I finally replaced the roof, together, over three long weekends. Vance is a better roofer than I am. I’m a better supervisor. We make a good team.
After dinner, Chloe and I sit on the porch while Vance does the dishes. Wren sleeps in a little bassinet between us.
Last Sunday, Chloe asked me something.
“Do you ever wish you’d yelled?” she said. “That first day. When you came home and saw the bags. Do you ever wish you’d just screamed at all of us?”
I thought about it.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because they wanted me to,” I said. “If I’d yelled, it would’ve been about how I reacted. I’d have been the dramatic one. The ungrateful one. And they’d have had a reason to ignore everything else.” I looked out at the pine trees. “Grandpa used to
say, when somebody tells you something’s for your own good, check their pockets. So I didn’t yell. I just checked.”
