Kevin stayed on the other side, where he belonged.
That was eight months ago.
I’m sixty-eight now.
Tyler and Emma come every Sunday without fail.
We bake cookies in my Chicago kitchen, the oven warming the whole first floor even in winter. We play board games at the dining room table. We walk to the park down the street when the weather cooperates, the kids running ahead past brick townhomes and old shade trees.
They tell me about their new school, which they actually love more than the expensive private school. They tell me about their friends, their teachers, the science fair. They show me drawings and test papers and stories they’ve written.
I get to be their grandmother again.
But on my terms.
Kevin brings them and picks them up. We exchange maybe ten words each time.
“Thank you for bringing them,” I’ll say.
“They had a good time,” he’ll reply.
Nothing more.
I haven’t seen Jessica since the airport.
According to Tyler, she works at a department store now and is always tired and grumpy.
According to Emma, “Mommy and Daddy fight about money a lot.”
I feel no guilt about this.
They made their choices.
My estate is still leaving everything to charity. Five-point-eight million dollars that Kevin will never see.
That probably bothers him every single day.
Good.
I’m thriving in other ways, too.
The Paris trip was incredible. Two weeks of museums and cafés, of walking along the Seine at sunset, of wandering through the Musée d’Orsay without worrying about nap schedules or meltdowns. I took a river cruise, ate too many pastries, and sat in a little café near the Sorbonne reading French novels badly but enthusiastically.
Since then, I’ve been on three more dates with Robert. We’re taking things slowly, but I enjoy his company. He brings me books he thinks I’ll like and listens when I talk about the years I spent at Chicago Memorial. He never once makes me feel like an obligation.
I’ve lost fifteen pounds, not from stress but from relief and regular exercise. I’ve read thirty-four books this year. I’ve taken up oil painting. I’ve reconnected with colleagues I’d lost touch with. I’ve lived more fully in the past eight months than I did in the previous eight years, because I’m not spending all my energy being the perfect mother and grandmother anymore.
I’m just being Margaret.
Last Sunday, while we were making chocolate chip cookies, Emma asked me a question.
“Grandma, are you still mad at Daddy?” she said as she rolled dough between her small hands.
I thought about how to answer that.
“I’m not mad anymore, sweetheart,” I said. “Mad is when you’re angry, but you might forgive someone later. What I feel is different.”
“What do you feel?” she asked.
“I feel done,” I said. “Your daddy made a choice to hurt me. And that showed me that our relationship wasn’t healthy. So I changed it. Now, we have a different relationship. One where I see you and your brother, but I protect myself from being hurt again.”
“Will you ever be friends with Daddy again?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe someday. But probably not the way we were before.”
“Because of what Mommy said at the airport?” she asked.
Of course they knew about that.
“Because of that,” I said, “and because of how your daddy reacted. Sometimes people show you who they really are, and when they do, you have to believe them.”
Emma thought about this as she pressed chocolate chips into the dough.
“I’m glad you still love us, though,” she said.
“Always, baby,” I said. “Always.”
Tyler, who’d been quiet during this conversation, spoke up.
“Daddy cries sometimes,” he said. “At night. I hear him.”
My chest tightened.
“I’m sorry you have to hear that, Tyler,” I said.
“He says he misses you,” Tyler added. “That he wishes he could take back what happened.”
“I’m sure he does,” I said.
