We had taught Daniel that love meant rescuing him.
Every time he made a mistake, we fixed it.
Every time he wanted something, we helped pay for it.
Every time he chose badly, we told ourselves he would learn later.
Maybe we had been so afraid of losing our son that we had forgotten he was an adult.
That night, Margaret took off the blue dress and placed it in the laundry room.
She stood there looking at the mud stains.
“I don’t think this is coming out,” she said.
I looked at the dress.
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
She touched one of the stains.
“I want to remember.”
I understood.
Not the humiliation.
Not the cruelty.
The moment she finally stopped pretending that everything was okay.
Three weeks later, Daniel came to our house.
Alone.
He looked exhausted.
He sat at our kitchen table for nearly an hour before saying anything.
“The wedding is over.”
I nodded.
“What happened?”
He looked down.
“Vanessa and I called it off.”
Margaret didn’t react.
“I thought you loved her,” she said.
“I did.”
“And now?”
Daniel was silent.
“I don’t know.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“But I know I don’t like who I became around her.”
