“I should have told her that her resentment belonged with me too.”
I looked up.
“She thought everyone was changing their lives because of you, but a lot of those choices were mine.”
“Why didn’t you tell her that?”
“Because I liked being the helpful one.”
I nearly laughed.
Mom smiled weakly.
“Not my best quality.”
“No.”
“I wanted everybody okay.”
“You still do.”
“Yes.”
“And when everyone isn’t okay, you try to identify whoever is least convenient.”
She winced.
“That sounds terrible.”
“It felt terrible.”
She nodded.
“You’re right.”
A month earlier, Mom would have added but.
But Beth was postpartum.
But family mattered.
But I should understand.
This time she didn’t.
That was new.
Six months after my niece was born, we had another family dinner at my parents’ house.
Aunt Susan was there again.
So were two cousins who hadn’t attended Dad’s birthday.
Someone asked how Beth had chosen the baby’s name.
The table became slightly quieter.
I noticed.
Beth noticed too.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“We just loved Lily.”
Then she glanced at me.
“And I handled part of that badly.”
Nobody moved.
One cousin looked confused.
Beth continued.
“Anna’s daughter was Lily too.
I knew using the name might be painful for her, and I should have talked to her before we decided.”
Mom stared down at her plate.
Aunt Susan said softly, “I thought it was meant as a tribute.”
Beth shook her head.
“No.”
She looked straight at Susan.
“I let you think that because it made the story sound nicer.”
Susan nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“That wasn’t fair to Anna.”
The conversation could have become awkward.
Instead Dad asked whether anyone wanted more chicken.
People started talking again.
I sat there with my fork in my hand.
Beth didn’t look at me for approval.
That mattered too.
Later, while we were washing dishes, I said, “Thank you.”
She handed me a plate.
“I hated doing that.”
“I know.”
“I felt like everyone thought I was horrible.”
“I don’t think they did.”
“I did.”
I put the plate in the rack.
“That’s different.”
Beth leaned against the counter.
“I spent months trying to control the way everyone saw what I did.”
“Yes.”
“It made everything worse.”
“Yes.”
She frowned.
“You could pretend to disagree occasionally.”
“I could.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
She smiled.
Then her expression became serious.
“I am sorry, Anna.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I mean all of it.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry I used something you said after Lily died as permission for something you never agreed to.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m sorry I told Josh we’d basically talked when we hadn’t.”
I looked at her.
“I’m sorry I complained to Mom about how you might react before you even knew there was anything to react to.”
That one hurt.
She saw it.
“I know.”
“Keep going.”
She gave me a watery laugh.
“I’m sorry I made you meet my daughter like you were taking some test.”
I looked down at the dish towel in my hands.
“And I’m sorry I acted like loving her meant you had to forgive me immediately.”
I nodded.
Beth reached for my hand.
This time, I let her take it.
“I forgive you,” I said.
Her face crumpled.
“But.”
She almost laughed through her tears.
“I knew there was a but.”
“But I still wish you hadn’t done it.”
Her smile disappeared.
“I know.”
“That may never change.”
She squeezed my hand.
“I understand.”
That was the difference.
For months, Beth had wanted forgiveness to mean that the past became acceptable.
It didn’t.
Forgiveness only meant I no longer wanted to keep fighting about something neither of us could undo.
The name remained.
So did my daughter.
Popular Posts
→- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
Recently Viewed
Stories you read recently will appear here.
