Chapter 24 - The Family Dinner
The first time Richard and I sat at same dinner table voluntarily was Lily’s fortieth birthday.
Decades after backyard.
We had shared graduations, weddings, hospital waiting rooms.
But not dinner by choice.
Lily insisted:
“No separate tables.”
I laughed.
“You’re forty. Bossy.”
“Yes.”
Richard came with Carla.
Owen now adult.
Sophie with Nora.
Amy.
Me.
No Margaret.
Gone.
We sat.
Richard across.
He did not control seating.
No one expected.
Dinner was loud.
At one point Owen joked about Richard being terrible cook.
Lily:
“He used to make pancakes.”
I remembered.
Early marriage.
Richard made blueberry pancakes Sunday.
Good memories still.
Then Sophie’s daughter Nora asked:
“Grandpa, why don’t you and Grandma Emily live together?”
Everyone froze.
Richard answered before me:
“Because I hurt her when we were married, and she left.”
Nora, nine:
“Like bad hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Did police?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Did she forgive?”
Richard looked at me.
I answered:
“Yes.”
Nora nodded.
“Okay.”
Children move.
Then:
“Can I have dessert?”
We laughed.
No sanitized.
No graphic.
Then after meal, Lily brought old family photos.
One of me pregnant with Lily.
Richard touching belly.
I stared.
He was smiling genuinely.
Then newborn.
He looked proud.
When did disappointment begin?
Maybe he had expected next boy.
No need solve.
Then photo of Sophie.
Richard crying.
He had loved.
Also disappointed.
Both.
Then Lily said:
“I used to think all old photos were fake.”
Richard whispered:
“Some weren't.”
I agreed.
“Some were real moments.”
The existence of violence does not make every smile fake.
Then:
“That makes it harder.”
“Yes.”
Then Richard said:
“I am sorry I made you question good parts too.”
I had never heard that.
I nodded.
Then after dinner, Carla and I ended up kitchen.
She said:
“He still wakes from nightmares sometimes.”
I did not ask.
Then:
“He says your name.”
I stiffened.
She immediately:
“Sorry. I shouldn't.”
“No, it's okay.”
Then:
“I don’t need know.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Are you safe with him?”
“Yes.”
I believed her.
Good.
Then Richard asked me outside? Hmm backyard could be trigger. He stayed inside.
At door:
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for coming.”
“For Lily.”
“I know.”
Then:
“I’m glad you stayed alive.”
That phrase.
I stared.
He continued:
“I know that's low bar.”
I laughed.
“Very.”
Then:
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I drove home.
No heart racing.
Then I thought of thirty year old me unconscious in dirt.
If I could speak to her, what would I say?
Not:
Be stronger.
Not:
Leave now.
Not even:
Call police.
I would say:
The fact that you are afraid does not mean you are weak.
The fact that you lied to survive does not mean truth is gone.
The fact that people love Richard does not mean you are wrong.
The fact that he sometimes loves you does not make you safe.
And your daughters are not failures.
Neither were you.
May you like
Then I slept.
No nightmare.
