“Did you understand that at the time?”
“Not fully.”
I watched my youngest granddaughter run toward Ruth, shouting that her brother had stolen her ball.
“Perhaps I was frightened too. I had spent so many years being the person who kept everything together that I could not imagine disappointing him without losing something important.”
Michael was quiet.
Then he asked, “And what did you learn?”
I smiled sadly.
“That love is not a promise to agree with someone forever. It is a promise to tell the truth, even when the truth is uncomfortable.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I wish Dad had understood that.”
“So do I.”
We sat together for a while, listening to the children play.
Then Michael stood.
“Come on, Mom. Everyone wants a photograph.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“Do I have to stand?”
“No. You can sit.”
“Good. I have only just recovered from one operation. I refuse to survive another family photograph.”
