I stood.
“Bring the children to my house this Sunday at two p.m.,” I said. “You’ll drop them off and pick them up at five. Three hours. If it goes well, we’ll discuss making it a regular arrangement.”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice breaking. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Thank Tyler and Emma for writing me a letter. This is for them, not for you.”
Sunday came.
At 1:55 p.m., I heard a car pull into my driveway. I looked through the front window and saw Kevin’s sedan.
Tyler and Emma got out, looking nervous and excited, clutching little backpacks. Kevin stayed in the car, hands on the steering wheel.
I opened the front door before they could knock.
“Grandma!” Emma shrieked, running up the walkway.
Tyler was right behind her.
They both hurled themselves into my arms, hugging me so hard I almost lost my balance.
“I missed you so much,” Emma said, crying into my shirt.
“We thought you didn’t love us anymore,” Tyler said.
I knelt down on the porch and held both of them.
“I never stopped loving you,” I said. “Not for one second. I was angry with your parents, but I always loved you.”
“Can we come back?” Emma asked, her eyes searching mine. “Please?”
“Yes,” I said. “You can come back every Sunday if you want.”
“Every Sunday?” Tyler repeated.
“Every Sunday,” I said.
They hugged me again.
I looked up and saw Kevin watching us from the car, tears streaming down his face.
Our eyes met for just a moment.
Then I stood, took my grandchildren inside, and closed the door.
Kevin stayed on the other side, where he belonged.
That was eight months ago.
I’m sixty-eight now.
Tyler and Emma come every Sunday without fail.
We bake cookies in my Chicago kitchen, the oven warming the whole first floor even in winter. We play board games at the dining room table. We walk to the park down the street when the weather cooperates, the kids running ahead past brick townhomes and old shade trees.
They tell me about their new school, which they actually love more than the expensive private school. They tell me about their friends, their teachers, the science fair. They show me drawings and test papers and stories they’ve written.
I get to be their grandmother again.
But on my terms.
Kevin brings them and picks them up. We exchange maybe ten words each time.
“Thank you for bringing them,” I’ll say.
“They had a good time,” he’ll reply.
Nothing more.
