The woman standing beside my father at the end of our gravel driveway had my eyes, my smile, and sixteen years of explaining to do.
Chapter 2
Aunt Denise wanted to stay in the room, but I told her no.
Laura and I sat across from each other at the old oak kitchen table. She looked nervous, almost frightened, which irritated me immediately. I wanted her defensive. I wanted her arrogant. I wanted the selfish woman from the notebook because that woman was easy to hate.
Instead, she folded her hands and said, “I’m not here to ask you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I know I don’t deserve it.”
“Also good.”
She swallowed. “Your father told me you might leave the farm if I keep coming around.”
“I said I was thinking about it.”
Her face tightened.
Then she surprised me.
“I’ll stop coming.”
I stared at her.
She continued, “That farm is your home. You earned your place there in ways I never did. If me being there makes you feel like you’re being pushed out, then I won’t go back.”
For weeks I had imagined what I would say if I ever got her alone. I had speeches rehearsed, accusations sharpened like knives.
Instead I asked, “Why?”
She knew exactly what I meant.
“Why did you leave?”
“Yes.”
She looked down at her hands. “Because I was selfish. Because I was twenty-four years old and convinced that every disappointment in my life was somebody else’s fault. I blamed the town. I blamed the farm. I blamed your father. And worst of all, I blamed you and Noah.”
My throat tightened.
“You called him a noose.”
Her eyes closed.
So she remembered.
“I know.”
“He was six weeks old.”
“I know.”
“I was seven.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know!”
She flinched, but she stayed seated.
“You don’t know what it was like. Dad couldn’t get out of bed. Noah had diaper rash so bad he screamed when I touched him, and I didn’t know what I was doing. Aunt Denise had to teach me how to take care of your baby.”
Laura began crying silently.
I leaned forward.
“Did you think about us?”
“Every day.”
“Don’t.”
“I did.”
“Birthdays?”
“Yes.”
“Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“My graduation?”
“Yes.”
“Noah’s first day of school?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you come back?”
She took a long breath. “At first, because I thought I had escaped. Then because I was ashamed. After a few years, shame became cowardice. Every year I stayed away made coming back harder. And eventually I convinced myself you were better without me.”
“That was convenient.”
“It was.”
She did not defend herself.
That infuriated me more than excuses would have.
“You got to have a life,” I said. “You went to New York. You had parties and jobs and apartments. I stayed here.”
“I know.”
“I could have gone to college.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that!”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Say you can give it back.”
She stared at me.
“My childhood,” I said. “Give it back.”
Her face crumpled.
And suddenly I understood the terrible truth.
That was what I wanted.
Not an apology. Not punishment. Not even justice.
I wanted to be seven again. I wanted to wake up and find pancakes on the stove instead of my father crying on the floor. I wanted somebody else to worry about Noah’s bottles. I wanted to be selfish and silly and irresponsible. I wanted to come home from school and throw my backpack in a corner because there was an adult in the house who would handle everything.
Laura could apologize until her dying breath.
She could never give me that.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
I looked away because I hated that she had finally said the right thing.
After a while, she stood.
Before leaving, she stopped beside me.
“No matter what you decide about me, Claire, I love you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
“I know.” Her voice trembled. “And if you hate me forever, I will understand. If you never call me Mom again, I’ll understand that too. But if there is ever a day you need me, I will come. I won’t ask whether I deserve to. I’ll just come.”
She went to the door, then turned back.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed a mother.”
After she left, I sat alone for a long time.
I did not forgive her that day.
At least, that was what I told myself.
But I went home.
