“He’s my grandpa.”

Michael was the first to regain himself.

“Dad, where have you been?”

I looked at them.

“At the same table where I waited ten years.”

Denise started to cry.

Karen did not.

She said, “You embarrassed us by disappearing.”

I gave one quiet laugh.

“You told my granddaughter I was dead.”

Karen’s lips tightened.

“It was easier than explaining why you left.”

“No,” I said.

“It was easier than explaining why you never came.”

Part 3

The entire diner fell quiet around us.

Lily stayed beside me, both hands gripping my sleeve.

My children looked older than I remembered.

Not wiser.

Only older.

Michael sat down first.

He rubbed a hand over his face and whispered, “Dad, I thought Karen was checking on you.”

Denise wiped at her tears.

“I thought Michael was.”

Karen snapped, “Don’t act innocent. None of us wanted to deal with him.”

There it was.

Not sorrow.

Not misunderstanding.

Convenience.

I looked at my oldest daughter, the child I had once carried through snow when pneumonia had taken hold of her, and saw a stranger who had learned how to turn guilt into accusation.

“I cooked,” I said.

“I called.”

“I waited.”

Karen folded her arms.

“You also made us feel bad.”

“No, Karen. Your own choices did that.”

Lily looked up at me.

“Did you really make pies every Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“For us?”

“Yes.”

Tears gathered in her eyes.

That hurt worse than Karen’s anger.

A child was mourning memories the adults had stolen from her.

Samuel arrived ten minutes later.

I had asked him to meet me there, in case my children turned the reunion into an argument about money.

They did.

Michael asked about the money from the house.

 

 

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