I waited.
“I let Jessica insult you because confronting her felt harder. I moved into your house because I was afraid of rent, debt, and admitting I had failed. I assumed you would forgive me because you always had.”
His voice broke.
“I treated your love like an account I could keep withdrawing from.”
“I believe you are sorry,” I said. “But regret is not repair.”
“I know. I’m trying to learn the difference.”
That was the first answer that gave me hope.
Jessica later gave birth to a little girl named Grace.
Two weeks afterward, Matthew brought the baby during his scheduled visit.
He knocked.
When I opened the door, he said, “I told her this is Grandma Margaret’s house, and we always knock.”
I stepped aside.
Grace slept in a yellow blanket, her tiny fist resting beneath her chin.
When Matthew placed her in my arms, I felt how quickly love could reopen a door.
But this time, love would not erase the lock.
Inside the baby bag, I later found an old photograph of myself crying in a parking lot many years earlier.
George had written on the back:
