I said, “I am here now. But you almost taught me not to come back.”
Nobody spoke.
Nick cried too. Linda covered her mouth. The kids looked confused, then Emma took my hand like she thought maybe that would keep me from disappearing again.
I looked at him and almost smiled.
That little hand steadied me.
Later, after cake and presents and too many pictures, after the children were asleep, Nick and I sat at the kitchen table.
He made me tea.
“How much sugar?” he asked.
I looked at him and almost smiled. “Two.”
He winced. “I should have known that.”
He nodded and handed me the cup, anyway.
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
He nodded and handed me the cup, anyway.
Then he said, “I can’t undo yesterday. But I want to do better in ordinary ways. Weekly dinners when you visit. Sunday calls. Actual plans. Not just ‘sometime soon.'”
“Trust is built by repetition,” I said.
“I know.”
The next morning, Emma climbed into my lap before breakfast and asked, “You stayed. Does that mean pancakes?”
Nick saw me pause.
“That is exactly what it means,” I told her.
On my way to the kitchen, I passed the front door and glanced at the porch.
Nick saw me pause.
Without saying a word, he crossed the room, opened the door wide, and stood there holding it.
This time, I believed him.
“Come in, Mom,” he said.
I looked at him for a second.
Then I walked through.
This time, I believed him.
