I smoothed the hair back from her forehead. “Sometimes adults make mistakes, Emma. And sometimes they don’t know how to fix them.”
“Is Grandma sorry?”
“I don’t know, baby. Maybe.”
“Are you still mad about the cake?”
I paused. “I’m not mad about cake,” I said softly. “I’m mad that someone made you feel like you weren’t good enough. You are always good enough. Always.”
Emma thought about this for a moment. “Do we have enough money now? From selling the house?”
She was a smart kid. Too smart. She noticed everything.
“We’re going to be just fine,” I promised.
“Can we get a dog?”
I smiled, the tension in my shoulders finally releasing. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
The silence from the family lasted for two weeks. I assumed they were busy moving, packing up thirty years of accumulation into whatever condo they could afford with their share of the money. I focused on my work, on my rentals, on Emma.
Then, the formal dinner invitation arrived via certified mail.
It was heavy cardstock, embossed. The Anderson Family requests the pleasure of your company for a Reconciliation Dinner. Mom wants to apologize. The whole family will be there. Please bring Emma.
I read it twice. Then I threw it in the recycling bin.
I declined via email. One word: No.
Mom showed up at my office three days later.
Building security called up. “A Mrs. Anderson is here to see you. She says it’s urgent.”
I sighed. “Send her up. But tell her she has five minutes.”
When she walked into my office, she looked different. The armor was cracked. Her hair wasn’t perfectly coiffed. She looked smaller. Older. Defeated.
She sat in the guest chair without waiting for an invitation. She didn’t look at the view; she looked at her hands.
