“We moved in because you needed us too.”
“That is partly true.”
His eyes flashed with relief.
As though he had finally found the winning argument.
“You think this was all for us? You think we took advantage of you? You were alone. You hated this house after Dad died.”
“I did.”
“You said having us here saved you.”
“It did.”
“Then how can you act like we were some burden you tolerated?”
“I’m not.”
“Sounds like it.”
I set down my coffee.
“You helped me, Mark.”
His expression softened slightly.
“I know.”
“And I helped you.”
“Yes.”
“Those things can both be true.”
He said nothing.
“The fact that I needed family after your father died does not mean I owe you my house forever.”
His softness disappeared.
“No one said forever.”
“When were you leaving?”
He hesitated.
“We were working on it.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Six months?”
He looked away.
“A year?”
“Why does there have to be a deadline?”
I almost smiled.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That is the problem.”
He frowned.
“You stopped thinking there needed to be an end.”
“That’s not true.”
“I saw the apartment list beside your bed.”
His eyes snapped toward me.
“You went through my stuff?”
“It was lying on the nightstand.”
He looked furious.
“That was private.”
“I did not read anything except the addresses and rents visible on the page.”
He paced once across the kitchen.
“So now you’re spying.”
“No.”
“Those places weren’t right.”
“Why?”
“Too small. Bad school areas. Too expensive.”
“One had a star beside it.”
He stopped.
“That was Lisa.”
“Did you look at it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
He remained silent.
I knew.
It had probably been fine.
Maybe not perfect.
But fine was difficult to accept when something better was free.
Upstairs, drawers opened and closed.
Mark stared into his coffee.
“We were going to apply eventually.”
“Eventually is not a plan.”
He put the mug down harder than necessary.
“All right. You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
“We got comfortable.”
The sentence hung between us.
It was the first honest thing he had said since the cake hit my face.
“We got comfortable,” he repeated. “Happy?”
“No.”
“You should be. That’s what you wanted to hear.”
“I wanted you to understand it.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I don’t know how this became such a disaster.”
“I do.”
He looked up.
“I kept saying yes after I wanted to say no.”
His anger faltered.
“That’s not all on you.”
“No.”
I met his eyes.
“It isn’t.”
For the first time, he did not argue.
Lisa came downstairs carrying two framed photographs.
One was of the three of them at the beach.
The other showed Tyler at age eleven standing beside Robert.
My husband had one arm around our grandson’s shoulders.
The sight of it hurt.
Tyler adored Robert.
Robert had been patient with him but not indulgent.
Once, when Tyler was eight, he kicked a soccer ball in the living room after being told twice not to.
The ball knocked over a ceramic lamp.
Tyler burst into tears immediately.
“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”
Robert had hugged him.
Then he handed him a broom.
“I know you are.”
Tyler looked confused.
Robert smiled.
“And you’re still cleaning it up.”
I had forgotten that.
Or maybe I had chosen to forget because after Robert died, being the soft grandmother made me feel useful.
Lisa followed my gaze to the picture.
“He misses him.”
“So do I.”
She set both frames carefully into the box.
“Tyler asked me something last night.”
Mark stiffened.
“What?”
“He asked whether Grandpa would have laughed.”
No one spoke.
I knew the answer.
Apparently, so did Mark.
Lisa looked at him.
“I told him no.”
Mark sank into a chair.
The anger seemed to drain from him.
“He’s a kid.”
“Yes,” Lisa said. “Which is why we’re supposed to teach him before he becomes an adult who thinks sorry fixes everything.”
Mark looked at me.
I could see the insult in his face.
“You told her that.”
“I told Tyler that.”
“Same thing.”
Lisa shook her head.
“No.”
She sat across from him.
“I should have stopped it earlier. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
Mark looked between us.
“So I’m the only terrible parent now?”
I sighed.
“No one is calling you terrible.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Mark.”
He looked at me.
“The fact that you made mistakes as a father does not erase everything good you have done.”
His expression flickered.
“But if you spend all your energy defending the mistake, you never have to correct it.”
He stared at the table.
For once, he had no quick answer.
The front door opened.
Tyler stepped inside.
