“You were enough,” I said. “You were always enough. She just didn’t know how to see it.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
The divorce was final in March. Rachel moved into a small apartment on the other side of town.
She got a second job at a restaurant on the weekends to pay the rent. I heard she started seeing a counselor. I heard she cut her hair short. I heard she stopped going to parties.
My mother told me all of this. My mother calls me every Sunday now. She doesn’t say that’s just
Rachel anymore. She hasn’t said it once since the day in the backyard.
“I made her that way,” my mother told me once, in April. It was the first time she’d ever admitted anything. “I gave her everything she wanted because I couldn’t stand to see her cry. And I let you
