Chapter 15
Two years later, my father died in prison.
Heart attack.
Fast.
Unexpected.
The call came on a Tuesday.
I sat at the kitchen table while Rosie colored beside me.
She was seven now.
Tall for her age.
Still serious when drawing people’s hands.
“Is it bad news?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“About Grandpa?”
I nodded.
“He died.”
She put down the crayon.
“Am I supposed to be sad?”
“No rule.”
She thought about that.
“Are you sad?”
I answered honestly.
“A little. Angry too. Mostly tired.”
Rosie nodded.
“I’m tired of him.”
So was I.
Evelyn requested permission to attend the funeral under supervision.
Denied.
Bethany sent a letter from prison.
I did not read it.
Amanda did.
It contained blame.
No surprise.
Paul went to the burial.
I did not.
Instead, Rosie and I went to Claire’s grave.
We brought lemon flowers.
Rosie placed a cupcake wrapper near the stone.
“Mommy, bad Grandpa is gone,” she said.
Then she looked at me.
“Is that rude?”
“No.”
“It’s true.”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Mommy likes truth.”
Paul visited more often after that.
Always with permission.
Always with rules.
He became Uncle Paul again slowly.
He attended school plays.
Sat in the back.
Clapped carefully.
One afternoon, Rosie asked him, “Did Grandpa hurt you too?”
Paul looked at me.
I nodded.
He answered, “Yes.”
“Did you tell?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know I could.”
Rosie touched Claire’s scarf.
“You can now.”
Paul cried medium.
Exactly as allowed.
In second grade, Rosie wrote a story called The Girl Who Said Stop.
The teacher sent it home with a note.
Powerful voice.
I read it alone first.
Then with Rosie.
In the story, the girl did not defeat the bad people with magic.
She defeated them by telling three safe adults.
I asked why three.
Rosie shrugged.
“Sometimes one is busy.”
May you like
That answer hurt.
And healed.
