It’s Not Your Job
Patricia arrived that afternoon carrying a bag of clean clothes and Oliver’s favorite crackers.
She looked exhausted.
“How is he?”
“He’s resting,” David said.
“I’ve been sick with worry. Your father would have known what to say at a time like this.”
David didn’t respond.
She glanced toward Oliver’s door.
“Can I go in?”
“Not yet.”
Her eyes filled.
“David, please. I’m his grandmother.”
He held out the yellow card.
“Read this first.”
Patricia frowned, then unfolded it.
I watched her eyes reach the picture.
“That’s my old chair,” she whispered. “And that’s my Teddy Bear.”
“Read the inside,” David said.
Her mouth moved silently.
She sat in the nearest chair without looking away from the page.
“He made this for me?”
“Yes.”
Patricia touched the little drawing.
“I used to read to him there every Saturday. He’d fall asleep before we finished the book.”
“Then you started telling him he was too big.”
“He was getting older, David. I didn’t think—”
“You told him he had a pregnant belly at your birthday dinner.”
Her face crumpled.
“I was joking. I never thought he would take it like this.”
“He thought you didn’t want to hold him anymore.”
Patricia looked up.
“That’s ridiculous. I love that child.”
“Then why did he think he had to become smaller to get his grandmother back?”
She stared at the card.
For once, she didn’t have an answer.
“I was worried about his stomach,” she whispered after a while. “I asked you to make sure the doctor checked it.”
“I know. That’s why your jokes hurt even more.”
Patricia wiped her cheeks.
“Please let me see him.”
David glanced toward Oliver’s door.
“Not until he wants to.”
She began crying harder.
“You’re shutting me out when my grandson is sick.”
I saw the familiar hesitation on David’s face.
Then he shook his head.
“Mom, he’s the one who’s sick. This isn’t about making you feel better.”
Patricia lowered the card into her lap.
She didn’t argue again.
Later, David sat beside Oliver while I went to get some water.
When I returned, I heard him speaking softly.
“I should have listened when you told me Grandma’s jokes hurt.”
Oliver picked at the dinosaur’s missing eye.
“I didn’t want her to cry.”
“I know.”
“Will she cry if I don’t want to see her?”
“Maybe.”
Oliver’s eyes widened.
David took his hand.
“Grown-ups are allowed to be sad, buddy. It’s not your job to stop them.”
“But then you’ll be sad.”
“I might be. That’s not your job either.”
Oliver thought about that.
“Can I tell you when someone makes me sad?”
“Every time,” David said. “Even if it’s Grandma. Even if it’s me.”
May you like
Oliver leaned against him.
That was the first time I’d seen my husband hold our son without looking over his shoulder toward his mother’s feelings.
