“Pretty.”
I sat beside her.
“Those belonged to your grandmother.”
She looked at me.
“You?”
“No.”
“Grandma Audrey?”
“Yes.”
“The one in heaven?”
“That’s right.”
She touched a pearl.
“Mommy wore these?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I thought about it.
“Because they were waiting for her.”
“Can I wear them?”
“When you’re older.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Much older.”
She sighed dramatically.
Then came the question adults would have made complicated.
“Are you her mom?”
“Whose?”
“Mommy.”
“I’m her stepmom.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who came into her family later.”
“Does she love you?”
“Yes.”
“Then okay.”
And that was it.
A four-year-old solved what adults had spent years turning into a conflict.
Does she love you?
Then okay.
—
That evening, after Hannah picked her up, Greg and I sat on the porch drinking coffee.
We had both gone gray.
The years had softened us.
“Do you ever think about what I said that week?”
“Yes.”
His mouth tightened.
“I do too.”
“I know.”
“I still hate that I said it.”
“You apologized.”
“I know.”
“You changed.”
“I’m trying.”
I leaned against him.
“The sentence hurt.”
He nodded.
“But it also forced us to see something.”
“What?”
“That I was waiting for you to grant me a role Hannah had already given me.”
Greg looked at me.
“I needed you to tell me I belonged because I wasn’t fully trusting what Hannah had shown me for years.”
His voice softened.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I should still tell you.”
“Sometimes.”
The white rose from table four didn’t survive, of course.
