As we left the courthouse, my father tried to approach me. “Sweetheart, I…”
Dorothy stepped between us, a five-foot-two wall of concrete. “You don’t get to call her that. You lost that right in the rain.”
We walked away into the bright March sun. I didn’t look back.
Which brings me back to today. Boston. The rain on the glass.
Thirteen years have passed. I am a marketing director. I have a 401(k). I have a fiancé named Colin who is a pediatric nurse and the kindest man I have ever known.
I drove down to Maple Grove Care Center last weekend.
I didn’t go for him. I went for me. I went because Grandma Dorothy taught me that carrying hate is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
My father’s room smelled of lemon disinfectant and old age. The stroke had taken the left side of his body. He looked small. Crumpled.
He cried for ten minutes when he saw me.
