She lifts one shoulder, showing little enthusiasm for visiting with her great-grandmother—the woman who’s been the closest thing I’ve had to an actual mother for most of my life.
Grandpa died before I graduated from high school. But when Katy was very young, I’d brought her to visit Gram every several weeks until school and sports obligations ate up our free time. These past two years we’ve seen Gram only for birthdays and holidays. Still, I call her at least twice a month.
“Well, I’ll make myself scarce,” Dan says. He takes a step toward the door, then pauses. “Katy, a lot of the teens around here spend summer days at the Bayshore Point beach. And I think Dante’s is still the pizza joint of preference.”
Although Katy and her friends frequent high-end coffee bars and health food restaurants instead of pizza shops, she offers him a courteous nod. “Thanks.”
He casually salutes us. “See you ladies on Monday at eight a.m.”
“Thanks, Dan.” I walk him out and wave as he jogs to his truck. “Enjoy your weekend.”
As the door clicks shut, I take a deep breath before spinning around. “Did you have a nice lunch with your father?”
“Don’t worry. He didn’t invite me to live with him.”
I’m simultaneously relieved and furious. Mostly relieved, though. Even so, I would force Richard to take her if I believed living with him would be better for her in the long run. When he gives her his full attention, she comes alive. But two or three hours per week is not enough to sustain her without me there to make up for the rest.
Watching her struggle with our divorce reminds me of when my mother’s death taught me that family could be cruelly snatched away. My dad didn’t greet me with my mom’s bright smile or tuck me in with a bedtime story, but I’d had Gram and Grandpa to cushion the blow. I don’t want Katy to lose faith in—or struggle with—love because her father is currently too preoccupied with his own happiness to pay attention to hers.
Katy strolls the living room. “This whole house could fit in our old basement.”
She’s not wrong. This Cape is slightly more than two thousand square feet, which definitely would fit in our old basement.
“Less to clean and maintain, which means more time and money for travel or art lessons,” I add hopefully. “Maybe we can plan a trip to Grand Cayman at Christmas, or Paris during spring break?”
Katy nods before bobbing her head from side to side. “Can we call the school and switch my digital engineering class to a photography elective? Screw Dad and his STEM bullshit.”
“Let’s watch the language.”
She’s acting tough, but her recent manicure is already a mess and she’s plucking at her hair. Since she hit kindergarten, I’ve monitored her nails chewed to the quick, hair twisted and plucked, teary outbursts, and irritability in unfamiliar environments. Not that Richard shared my concerns. His Katy-bear was flawless or merely going through a phase. “Let’s not saddle her with mental illness labels like all these other parents do.”
Aware that my approval of her decision could cause her to reverse course, I choose my next words carefully. “I bet you’d enjoy photography, but you shouldn’t use electives as weapons to irritate your father.”
“Why do you care? He dumped you for another woman. You should be pissed.”
The truth of that remark doesn’t lessen the sting of her disdain. But my feelings are less important than making sure she doesn’t feel pressured to choose sides. “No matter what happens between your father and me, he’s your dad. He loves you and does his best by you.”
“His best sucks.” Her scowl can’t mask the sadness in her voice.
“So does mine sometimes. Yours too. If you want to be forgiven for your mistakes, then you need to forgive us, too.”
If ever a “do as I say, not as I do” parenting moment existed, this might be it, because I haven’t forgiven Richard for cheating. The humiliation is the least of it. His behavior denigrates everything I held dear and built my life upon.
Katy’s extraocular muscles get quite a workout. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mom, but when I’m older, I won’t be anything like you.”
My mouth falls open. “What’s the ‘right’ way to take that insult, Katy?”
Another eye roll. “Even now, you won’t yell. Why do you let people walk all over you?”
I hate when restraint is misread as weakness instead of strength. Really hate that. With an exaggerated howl, I stomp my feet a few times, then collect myself and smile. “Better?”
“You’re so weird.”
Maybe, but my weirdness wrests a brief grin on her end. Getting her to smile on a day like today makes it a little better.
“Screaming like a shrew and complaining don’t change the facts. Better to look inward and control one’s reactions than point the finger at others for causing them.” Sure, I’ve blamed Richard for a lot lately, but not in front of Katy. And deep down I’m vaguely aware of my role in our divorce. I’m just not ready to embrace it.
“Whatever . . .” She exhales and gnaws her thumbnail. “Can we go eat?”
“How about a hug first?” I close the distance between us to comfort her. “I know you’re not excited about this place, but please give it a chance. We can be happy here.”
Katy doesn’t reach for me, but she doesn’t push me away, either. With my arms secured around her, her resolve melts as she absorbs all the love I can offer in an attempt to restore the reserves Richard depleted from her today.
If I close my eyes and inhale, I can transport myself back to those earliest days with my precious girl, when my heart was gooier than a molten lava cake, overflowing with awe and hope and warmth—back before the terrible twos, the middle school melodramas, and the teen rebellion. Even now, that uncomplicated, unconditional mother’s love floods my veins.
I could hold her forever, but she breaks away.
“Can I see what’s in that box?” she asks.
Happy to discuss something else, I hand it to her.
She picks through the items, sifting the scarf through her fingers and then staring at the photo. “Are these Grammy’s things?”
“Maybe.” They could’ve belonged to her younger sister, Lonna, or even her own mother. I have no idea when the Polaroid was invented. Again I’m intrigued by the unfamiliar initials on the hankie and by the photograph. The man is wearing some kind of work uniform beneath his jacket, but I can’t make out the insignia. He looks a bit shy in the picture. “It’s odd that she hid these things in a crawl space if they mattered enough to keep.”
“It’s probably just some old high school boyfriend’s stuff that she forgot about.” Katy returns the scarf and photo to the box before she hands it back to me, already uninterested.
“Probably.” But Grandpa’s whispered reference to whatever Gram had gone through rolls through my thoughts again as I study that rusty nail and those haunting round eyes in the photograph. Gram has been such an important figure in my life—a role model for how to prioritize family. It’s odd to think she had some other life—a secret one—that she never shared with me. Instead of asking my dad, maybe I’ll ask her about it when we visit.