Chapter 10: The Conversation That Decided It
He was in the kitchen.
He had made tea — for both of us, two mugs on the counter — and was standing at the window looking at the backyard the way he did when he was working up to something.
I sat at the table.
He brought the mugs over and sat across from me.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
"Okay."
"I spoke to my mother today.
She called me after she left here." He wrapped both hands around his mug.
"She told me she came to apologize and that you were hostile and unreasonable."
"I know what she told you."
"I know you know." He looked up.
"I didn't believe her."
I waited.
"She said you recorded her.
She's angry about that."
"I did record her."
"Good," he said.
That surprised me.
I let it show.
"Lauren, I have spent four years watching my mother manage situations.
I know what her apologies sound like.
I know what she does when she's trying to protect herself versus when she's actually sorry." He set down his mug.
"What she did to Mia was not an accident.
And I think I've known for a long time that Mia wasn't being treated the same as the other kids.
I told myself it was small things.
I told myself my mother loved her in her own way."
"And now?"
"Now I've read what my father wrote."
I went still.
"He showed you?"
"He sent it to me this morning.
He said he wanted me to see it before you made any decisions.
He said I had earned the right to know what kind of family I'd been asking you to be part of." Daniel's jaw tightened.
"He's right."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me," he said.
"For Jess, or for not seeing what was happening with Mia, or for all the times I told you that you were being too sensitive.
I'm not asking for anything right now.
I just want you to know that I see it.
All of it.
And I'm not going to defend any of it anymore."
I looked at him across the table.
This was the man I had married.
He was also the man who had kept a secret for eight months and told me I was too sensitive when I said his mother treated Mia differently.
Both of those things were true at the same time.
"I haven't decided about us," I said.
"I need more time."
"I know."
"But I need you to do something."
"Anything."
"I need you to tell your mother — clearly, not gently, not with room for interpretation — that Mia will not be in her care alone until I say otherwise.
Not a visit.
Not an errand.
Not five minutes in a parking garage.
And I need you to mean it even when she cries."
He nodded.
"I'll call her tomorrow."
"Tonight," I said.
He looked at me.
Then he picked up his phone.
I sat at the table and listened to him make the call.
He did not apologize to Patricia.
He did not soften it.
He said: *Mia is not to be alone with you.
That's not a discussion.
That's what's happening.* He listened for a moment.
Then he said: *Mom, I've read Dad's letter.
I don't want to hear it right now.*
He hung up.
He set the phone on the table between us.
"Okay," he said.
I picked up my mug.
The tea had gone slightly cool.
"Thank you," I said.
It wasn't forgiveness.
May you like
It wasn't a decision.
It was one true thing in a night that had needed one.
