Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, but the microphone carried it to every corner of that ballroom.
“You get very good at giving them reasons to stay.”
Sophie burst into tears.
So did I.
Emma looked right at me, and her eyes were full.
“And you always tell me how mature I am.”
That hurt more than anything else she’d said all night.
Because I had. For eight years, I had said it over and over.
Emma’s so mature.
Emma understands.
Emma never makes things difficult.
I had been praising my daughter for making my divorce easier on me. I had simply never called it that.
“I thought you were,” I whispered.
Emma’s tears finally spilled over.
“I was seventeen, Mom.”
Four words.
A child. A child learning how to keep all the adults she loved in the same room, because the adults couldn’t manage it themselves.
Part Twelve: “I Didn’t”
Sophie wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
Emma looked exhausted. Not angry anymore. Just bone-deep tired, the way you get after carrying something heavy for a very long time.
“Because I wanted all of you there,” she said.
