“Can we invite her over on Saturday?”
“Of course.”
“And can we make cookies?”
I laughed.
“Absolutely.”
When Sophie arrived that weekend, the girls spent the afternoon baking chocolate-chip cookies, making a terrible mess of the kitchen, and laughing so loudly that I could hear them from the living room.
At one point, Sophie came in to get a glass of water.
“Mrs. Sarah?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Do you think my mom was wrong?”
I put down the dish towel.
It was a difficult question because I didn’t want Sophie to feel she had to choose between her mother and her friends.
“I think your mom made a mistake,” I said carefully. “Adults make mistakes, too. What matters is whether we’re willing to learn from them.”
Sophie looked at the floor.
“I wish she’d said sorry to Emma.”
“Me too.”
She nodded, then returned to the kitchen.
I never found out whether Vanessa eventually understood why that morning had mattered so much.
