I was allowed to be frightened.
I was allowed to ask for help.
And I was allowed to love someone without pretending they had never hurt me.
A few weeks later, my grandchildren came over again.
The youngest ran through the door and climbed into my lap.
“Grandma, are you all better now?”
I kissed her forehead.
“I’m getting stronger every day.”
She considered this answer carefully.
“Does that mean you can make your apple pie again?”
I laughed.
“That depends. Are you going to help me?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes!”
“Then we shall see.”
From the doorway, Michael called out, “Mom, don’t let her eat all the apples before you start!”
His daughter turned toward him.
“I won’t!”
Then she leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I’ll only eat three.”
I laughed so hard that tears filled my eyes.
And in that moment, surrounded by the ordinary noise of the people I loved, I realized something that had taken me nearly eighty years to understand.
