“Sandra.”
I crossed the room and took her hand.
It was cool and light.
She held mine firmly.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Thank you for writing.”
She glanced past me at Dean, who had stopped just inside the doorway.
Something moved across her face.
Not romance.
Not regret.
Something older and quieter than either.
“Dean,” she said.
“Sandra.” His voice was rough.
He came forward and she offered her hand and he took it in both of his.
“You don’t need to apologize,” she said.
“I need to say it anyway.”
“All right.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.
I know it wasn’t my fault.
But I’m sorry you did it alone.
You shouldn’t have had to.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“I made that choice.”
“I know.
I’m still sorry.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she nodded.
“Sit down, both of you.
Ethan made coffee.
He makes terrible coffee but he makes it with great dedication.”
From the kitchen, Ethan called out, “I heard that.”
“Good,” she called back.
Dean sat in the chair across from her.
I sat on the small sofa to the side.
Ethan came in with four mugs and handed them around and sat on the arm of his mother’s chair, close to her, and I watched her lean slightly toward him without seeming to notice she was doing it.
We talked for two hours.
Sandra told us about the school where she’d taught for twenty years.
Third grade.
She said eight-year-olds were the best age because they were still curious about everything and hadn’t yet learned to be embarrassed by that curiosity.
Dean said he thought that was true of most good things in life.
She laughed.
It was a real laugh, not a polite one.
She asked about our children.
I told her about Lynn, about our son Patrick who lived in Edinburgh with his family, about Noah and his birthday cake that had been shaped like a fire engine and had taken his mother three hours to ice.
“He sounds wonderful,” Sandra said.
“He is,” I said.
“He’s four.
Everything is wonderful when you’re four.”
She smiled.
“Ethan was like that.
He found a caterpillar once and kept it in a jar for a week and cried for two days when it escaped.” She looked at her son.
“Do you remember that?”
“I remember you told me it had gone to find its family,” Ethan said.
“I thought that was a very good outcome.”
“It was the best I could do on short notice.”
The coffee was, as promised, not very good.
I drank all of it.
Near the end of the visit, when Ethan had gone to find a photograph Sandra wanted to show Dean, she reached over and touched my arm.
“Can I say something to you?
Just you?”
“Yes.”
“I know this isn’t simple.
I know what I’ve brought into your life.
And I know that your grace about it doesn’t mean it doesn’t cost you something.” She looked at me steadily.
“I want you to know that I see that.
And I’m grateful for it.
More than I can say.”
I looked at this woman in her chair by the window.
This woman who had made a hard choice at twenty-two and lived with it honestly and had spent her last months trying to set things right.
“You gave him a good life,” I said.
“Whatever else — you gave him a good life.
That matters.”
Her eyes filled.
She didn’t let it spill over.
She just pressed her lips together and nodded.
Ethan came back with the photograph.
Dean leaned forward to look at it.
It was Ethan at about twelve, standing next to a half-built model bridge, grinning.
“He made that himself,” Sandra said.
“Balsa wood and determination.”
Dean stared at the photograph for a long time.
“He’s got your chin,” I told him.
Dean looked up at me.
His eyes were bright.
“He does,” he said.
On the drive home, we didn’t talk much.
Dean kept both hands on the wheel.
The streets were quiet.
The afternoon light was low and pale.
Halfway home, he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming.
For being — for being you.”
I looked out the window at the passing houses.
“We’re not finished,” I said.
“There’s still a lot to work through.”
“I know.”
“But we’re working through it.”
“Yes,” he said.
“We are.”
I watched the streets go by.
In my coat pocket, folded carefully, was the photograph Sandra had pressed into my hand as we were leaving.
Ethan at seven.
Gap-toothed.
Squinting.
