“I should go,” she said finally.
“I think you should.”
Her mouth hardened.
“Your father is sick, Colleen.”
That stopped me.
Not enough to invite her inside.
But enough.
“What happened?”
“His heart.”
My stomach tightened.
“How bad?”
“He collapsed.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
Before she came here.
Of course.]
“He’s recovering,” she added. “But experiences like this change people.”
Apparently not enough to make either of them apologize.
Mom touched the casserole’s foil covering.
“He’s been thinking about family.”
“He had fifteen years.”
“People get stubborn.”
“You mean Dad?”
“I mean everyone.”
I stared at her.
She still couldn’t say it.
They threw me out.
They cut me off.
They ignored my graduation, wedding, promotions, birthdays, and pregnancy.
Yet somehow responsibility remained evenly shared.
She put the casserole on the porch table.
“Call me when you’re ready.”
“I don’t have your number.”
Mom smiled faintly.
“Yes, you do.”
A card sat beneath the casserole.
Then she walked away.
That should have ended it.
Instead, it began a campaign.
My aunt Deborah called two days later.
Then Pastor Nylin from my childhood church.
Then women I hadn’t spoken to since high school began dropping off cards.
RECONCILIATION HEALS.
