There was enough pain in the truth without decorating it with bitterness.
When they were little, their questions were simple.
“Where is our mommy?”
“She isn’t living with us.”
“Why?”
“She made a choice to leave.”
As they grew older, the questions became harder.
One night, when Jennifer was about nine, she climbed into my bed after Lizzie had fallen asleep.
“Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mom love us?”
I remember staring into the darkness for several seconds.
There are answers children deserve, and there are answers adults simply don’t have.
“I think she loved you as much as she knew how to at that time.”
Jennifer was quiet.
“That doesn’t sound like very much.”
My throat tightened.
“No,” I admitted. “Maybe it wasn’t.”
Another time, Lizzie asked why Kayla hadn’t returned.
I refused to invent a comforting explanation.
“I don’t know.”
“Was it because we were difficult babies?”
