He sat in the nursery and fed her bottles.
My father was often nearby.
At first, the two barely spoke.
Eventually, Dad began teaching Roland small things he had recently learned himself.
How long to let the milk sit on your wrist.
How to hold Wren when she fell asleep.
One afternoon, Roland looked at the fading mark on my father’s wrist.
“You practiced before she arrived?”
“Six times.”
Roland stared at him.
“I never practiced anything.”
He looked toward me.
“I just assumed my mother would teach Simone.”
Three weeks later, Beverly called again.
This time I answered.
Her voice was different.
Smaller.
She apologized.
Not only for the dinner.
For six years.
Then she said something I didn’t expect.
“My husband’s mother treated me exactly the same way.”
She had been a waitress from a small town in South Carolina.
Her mother-in-law called her “the waitress” for years.
“I promised myself I would never do that to my son’s wife.”
Her voice cracked.
“And then I called you ‘the teacher.’”
She did not ask for forgiveness.
Only whether she could see Wren someday.
“Even if you stay in the room,” she said. “Even if your father is there. Even if I have to sit in the corner.”
