“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe someday. But probably not the way we were before.”
“Because of what Mommy said at the airport?” she asked. Of course they knew about that.
“Because of that,” I said, “and because of how your daddy reacted. Sometimes people show you who they really are, and when they do, you have to believe them.”
Tyler, who’d been quiet during this conversation, spoke up. “Daddy cries sometimes,” he said. “At night. I hear him.”
My chest tightened. “I’m sorry you have to hear that, Tyler,” I said.
“He says he misses you,” Tyler added. “That he wishes he could take back what happened.”
“I’m sure he does,” I said.
“Can’t you just forgive him?” Tyler asked.
I sat down at the table with both of them. “Here’s the thing about forgiveness,” I said. “Forgiveness doesn’t mean everything goes back to the way it was. It doesn’t mean I have to let your daddy back into my life the same way. Forgiveness means I’m not angry anymore—and I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I trust him like I used to.”
“Trust is like a glass vase,” I continued. “Once it’s broken, you can glue it back together, but it’s never the same. There are always cracks.”
Tyler nodded slowly, like he understood more than a nine-year-old should have to understand. “That makes sense,” he said. He hesitated. “Mommy says you’re mean for not helping us anymore,” he added. “But I don’t think you’re mean. I think Mommy and Daddy did something bad and now there are consequences.”
Out of the mouths of children. “That’s exactly right, Tyler,” I said softly. “Actions have consequences, even when you’re an adult. Especially when you’re an adult.”
Living for Myself
I am sixty-eight years old. For thirty-eight years, I put Kevin first. I gave and gave and gave. And you know what? I’m done. I’m living for myself now. And I’m happier than I’ve been in years.
I have all the time in the world now. Time to paint canvases that have nothing to do with anatomy charts. Time to wander through the Art Institute on a Tuesday morning just because I feel like standing in front of Monet’s water lilies. Time to sit in coffee shops in Lincoln Park with a mystery novel, listening to conversations about classes and startups and brunch.
Time to spend with Tyler and Emma every Sunday, building something new with them—something that has boundaries and respect baked into it from the beginning.
Time to date Robert and see where that gentle, late-in-life romance goes. Maybe it ends in a companion to travel with. Maybe it ends in a man I hold hands with on a bench by the lake. Maybe it ends in nothing more than a reminder that I am still wanted. All of those outcomes are fine.
Time, most of all, to finally live for myself.
Kevin tried to take that from me at the airport when he reduced me to a credit card with a stethoscope, a convenient source of money and free childcare. He tried to make me believe I should be grateful for whatever scraps of attention he and his wife decided to throw my way, even while they rearranged my life around their convenience.
But I chose differently. I chose the girl from the South Side who put herself through medical school. I chose the woman who scrubbed in on impossible cases and refused to give up on failing hearts. I chose the grandmother who still runs on the lakefront and books herself flights to Paris.
I chose myself.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is stop loving someone the way they expect you to—unconditionally, without boundaries, without consequences. Sometimes love means letting them fall so they can finally learn to stand.
