“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
Richard closed his eyes.
“Please, Tisha. Don’t ask me anything.”
—
Over the next four months, Daniel still answered when I called, but every conversation eventually reached the same wall.
“Mom, I love you. But don’t ask me to forgive Dad.”
I hated Richard for refusing to explain.
I hated Daniel for leaving.
Mostly, I hated myself because while the two men I loved tore something apart between them, I had no idea what I was supposed to fix.
And fixing things was usually the one thing I knew how to do.
—
A rustle moved through the chapel.
I looked up.
The doors had opened.
Daniel stood there.
For half a second, all I saw was my son.
Then I noticed what he was wearing.
Pink.
Not a pink shirt.
Not some strange suit.
A dress.
A woman’s faded pink dress that fell awkwardly below his knees, stretched across his shoulders, and looked even more absurd above his black dress shoes.
