She had seen herself.
“I thought you were afraid he might hurt me,S” I whispered.
“I was afraid he would control you the same way he controlled me.”
“But he never did.”
“I know.”
Mom wiped her eyes.
“And maybe that’s why I never told you. Every year that passed, I wondered if perhaps I had imagined things—that maybe they had been worse in my mind than they really were. He was so different with you.”
That sentence upset me.
“Mom, a person doesn’t have to treat everyone badly for what he did to you to stop mattering.”
Her face crumpled.
Before she could answer, we heard a voice behind us.
“Is everything okay?”
Grandpa.
He was standing several feet away.
Mom immediately stiffened.
I had never noticed that before.
Or maybe I had, but I had never understood what it meant.
Grandpa looked at her, then at me.
“What did she tell you?”
He didn’t say, “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t say, “Why are you crying?”
“What did she tell you?”
Mom noticed it too.
Something changed in her expression.
For the first time that afternoon, the fear disappeared.
“The truth,” she replied.
Grandpa’s jaw tightened.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
My heart sank.
“What does that mean?”
He waved his hand dismissively.
“Your mother had a difficult adolescence. We argued. Parents and teenagers argue.”
Mom let out a short, bitter laugh.
“You read every letter I received.”
“I was protecting you.”
