Chapter 10
By spring, I could go a whole week without thinking about the little table.
Sometimes a memory still caught me by surprise. I would hear someone say “be good,” and for a moment I was back in Grandma’s dining room, trying to finish my food without crying.
When that happened, I told Dad or Mrs. Brooks. They listened. The feeling passed.
Grandma kept writing. She asked about school and told me what was growing in her garden. I answered when I wanted to.
One afternoon, I asked Dad if Paige and I could visit her for an hour. Celia and Dad came with us. We agreed before we left that I could ask to go home at any time.
Grandma opened the door and stepped aside so I could choose whether to come in.
The dining room looked familiar. The small table was gone.
My throat tightened anyway.
Grandma saw me looking. “I got rid of it,” she said. “I should have done that long ago.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I went with Paige to the garden.
We picked yellow tomatoes and washed them at the kitchen sink. Grandma asked whether I wanted to help set out lunch. I said yes.
She handed me four plates. I counted the chairs without meaning to. There was one for Dad, one for Celia, one for Paige, one for me, and one for Grandma.
I set my plate beside Paige’s.
At lunch, Grandma asked me about the story I was writing for school. She waited while I found my place in it. When I stumbled over a word, nobody corrected me before I could finish.
Afterward, I asked Dad to take me home. He thanked Grandma for lunch. She didn’t try to make me stay longer.
At the door, she looked at me.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“Me too.”
I let her hug me. It was a short hug, and I was the one who stepped back. She smiled and opened the door for us.
In the car, Dad asked how I felt.
“I liked the garden,” I said. “And I was nervous in the dining room.”
“That makes sense.”
“I want to visit again. Maybe not next week.”
“We’ll plan it when you’re ready.”
Grandma had followed the rules Dad set, and she had listened when I said I wanted to leave. That mattered more to me than one good lunch.
The adults kept working on their relationships too. Celia told Dad she was sorry she hadn’t called him when Grandma first put me in the corner. Dad told her he was grateful she had spoken up for Paige. They could talk about both things now without pretending either one hadn’t happened.
Grandma apologized to Celia and Paige for making them afraid to disagree with her. Paige told me about it later.
“I said I was scared when she threatened my chair,” Paige said.
“What did she say?”
“She said she believed me.”
Paige looked relieved. I knew how much those words could mean.
At the end of the school year, Ms. Reed asked each of us to bring in a photograph of a place where we felt at home. I brought a picture Dad had taken on a Thursday evening. Lena, Celia, and Paige were squeezed around our round kitchen table with us. I was laughing so hard my eyes were nearly closed.
When it was my turn to speak, I held up the photograph.
“This is our apartment,” I said. “That’s my dad. And that’s my family visiting.”
Tessa raised her hand. “Why are there so many chairs?”
“Because people come over,” I said.
I could have told the class about the old dining room. I didn’t want to. The photograph showed what I wanted them to know.
After school, Dad picked me up. I showed him the picture and told him what I had said.
He was quiet for a moment.
“Do you like living here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite part?”
I thought he expected me to say my room or the courtyard.
“You ask me about my day,” I said.
Dad reached for my hand as we crossed the street.
That evening, Grandma called to ask whether Paige and I wanted to pick tomatoes on Saturday. I asked if Dad could come. She said she would like that.
Then I told her I might want to leave after lunch.
“Just tell me when,” she said.
I hung up smiling. I could visit her, enjoy the garden, and come home when I was ready. I no longer had to hide how I felt to keep my place in the family.
Dad made dinner while I set the table. I put out two plates and filled our glasses with water.
He carried a bowl of pasta over and sat beside me.
“Can you pass the bread?” I asked.
He handed it to me, then waited while I told him about the story Tessa had written for school. I talked for so long that our food nearly got cold.
Dad listened to every word.
May you like
When we finished, I stayed at the table to help him clear the plates. I felt safe in our home, loved by the people who showed up for me, and sure of my own voice.
I knew I could use it whenever I needed to.
