“There isn’t one that makes it better.”
That surprised me.
She sat at the kitchen table.
Gregory quietly took his coffee and went outside.
For once, my children seemed to understand that some conversations did not require an audience.
Brenda twisted her wedding ring.
“I was angry with you.”
I had not expected that.
“For what?”
She stared at the table.
“Dad.”
“What about him?”
“You keep making him present.”
I felt myself stiffen.
“He is present to me.”
“I know.”
“No, Brenda. You don’t get to tell me—”
“I know.”
She raised her head.
Tears stood in her eyes.
“That’s the problem.”
I stopped.
She swallowed.
“You can talk about him.”
“So can you.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I do, I can’t stop.”
Her voice cracked.
Suddenly, I saw not my forty-one-year-old daughter.
I saw the little girl who had once crawled into our bed during thunderstorms and buried her face against Robert’s shoulder.
