“I thought you’d make me stop going.”
I nodded.
“I gave you reasons to think that.”
Then I showed him a photograph of Michael holding a badly burned pie.
“Your dad once tried making Thanksgiving dessert without following the recipe. He insisted the black crust was intentional.”
Nathan laughed.
“Tell me something else.”
For the first time in years, I told my son stories about his father without searching for a reason to stop.
The following Saturday, I drove Nathan to Frank’s house. Denise had agreed to let Cole help for the afternoon.
Frank apologized again.
“Then help us make things different,” I told him. “Nathan needs his grandfather, but you must respect that I’m his mother.”
Inside the workshop, Nathan approached Cole.
“I’m sorry I made you keep lying.”
“You kept saying one more weekend,” Cole replied. “I wanted to tell Mom.”
“I know. I won’t put you in that position again.”
