But forgiveness didn’t mean returning to the life we had.
It meant I no longer needed him to understand what he had done.
Before we left, he asked, “Are you happy?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I didn’t think you’d be.”
“Neither did I.”
That was the last time we ever had a conversation about my life.
Three years after the divorce, Lily was ten.
She had grown taller.
She had lost two front teeth and gotten them back.
She complained about homework.
She loved baking.
And she had developed a habit of stealing the warmest piece of bread from the kitchen before dinner.
One summer evening, we sat on the porch.
The same porch where I had once stood looking at an old man beneath an elm tree.
Lily was reading.
I was drinking tea.
Then she looked toward the sidewalk.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that Albert?”
I turned.
He was walking toward us.
His hair was whiter now.
His steps were slower.
But he was smiling.
He carried a paper bag.
“What’s that?” Lily asked.
“Something for you.”
He handed her the bag.
She opened it.
A loaf of bread.
She hugged him immediately.
Then he handed me a photograph.
