Chapter 15
Emma eventually asked to see David.
Five months after the dining-room shove.
Not because adults suggested it.
Because she wanted to show him a drawing.
This one had three figures.
Mommy standing.
Emma holding Mommy’s hand.
Daddy far away.
No Grandma.
David stared at it.
Then asked:
“Where should I be?”
Emma pointed to the far figure.
“There.”
He nodded.
No argument.
Good.
“Can I come closer next time?”
Emma shrugged.
“Maybe.”
Better than yes.
More honest.
He did not touch her.
She did not hug him.
They talked about a toy horse.
Then cartoons.
Ten minutes.
When he left, David cried in the hallway.
I let him.
No speech.
No masculine lesson about holding it together.
He needed to understand grief without converting it into anger.
Sarah watched from the doorway.
“You feel sorry for him?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
She looked surprised.
“Does that bother you?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Compassion is not permission.”
That distinction had taken our entire family too long to learn.
I could pity David.
Remember good years.
Want him to improve.
And still keep him away from my daughter until she chose otherwise.
Mafia men love binary categories.
Loyal.
Enemy.
Useful.
Dead.
Family is harder.
Sometimes someone you love becomes unsafe.
May you like
The answer does not have to be hatred.
It has to be boundaries.
