Still nothing.
Then: “Yes.”
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “No, you didn’t know. Because if you did, you would have opened the door.”
He was silent so long I thought the call had dropped.
Then he said, “You’re right.”
Instead he added, “The surprise was real. But that’s not all of it.”
I sat up straighter.
“What does that mean?”
He took a shaky breath. “I keep trying to make everything look smooth. Perfect house. Perfect timing. Perfect family. Like if I keep it all organized, no one notices what I’ve been neglecting.”
I said nothing.
“And what I’ve been neglecting,” he said, voice rough now, “is you.”
“Every time I called, I was multitasking. Every time I promised a visit, I delayed it because I thought you’d understand. You always do. And yesterday I treated you the same way. Like you’d wait. Like you’d make it easy for me.”
Then I said what had been sitting inside me for years.
“I didn’t come here to be managed, Nick. I came here to be wanted.”
He made a sound like I had struck him.
“I know,” he whispered. “And I hate that I made you feel otherwise.”
Nick covered the phone briefly, but I still heard him say, “I hope not.”
Then there was movement, and suddenly a small voice came through the line.
“Grandma?”
My eyes filled instantly.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Are you the grandma from my picture?”
I swallowed. “I hope so.”
“I made your hair yellow by accident,” she said. “But Mommy said crayons are hard.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Then she asked, softly, “Are you still coming?”
I said, “Put your daddy back on.”
“You can come get me,” I said. “But listen carefully. I’m not coming back for one nice evening and then another year of rushed calls and vague promises.”
“You’re right.”
“I want real effort. Real visits. Real phone calls. Not when you can squeeze me in.”
“I know.”
“And no one leaves me outside that door again.”
His voice broke. “Never again.”
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