Chapter 9
Evan asked about Grandma after five months.
Not because he missed her food.
Because she had a bird feeder shaped like a red barn.
“Can see birds?”
I asked:
“Do you want Grandma there?”
He thought.
“No.”
Clear.
So Emily took photographs of the birds.
Problem solved.
Two months later:
“Can Grandma see me?”
Different.
“Do you want her to?”
“Maybe.”
We arranged ten minutes in a public park.
No food.
That was my condition.
Not because food itself was forbidden.
Because I did not want first contact tied to feeding.
Diane arrived early.
She looked smaller.
Not physically.
Socially.
No table.
No relatives laughing.
No home territory.
Just a bench.
Evan stood beside me.
Diane whispered:
“Hi, sweetheart.”
He stared.
Then:
“You hit me.”
Good.
Diane closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“You took chicken.”
“Yes.”
“I hungry.”
Her voice broke.
“I know.”
Then she started explaining.
I stopped her with one look.
Not yet.
Evan did not need a theory.
He needed an apology.
Diane understood.
“I was wrong.”
He frowned.
“You knew?”
“What?”
“That I hungry.”
Long silence.
“Yes.”
That was the hardest answer.
Because ignorance could be forgiven differently.
She knew.
She believed hunger was useful.
Evan stared.
Then asked:
“Why?”
Diane cried.
“Because I thought making you wait would teach you something.”
“What?”
She had no child-sized answer.
Finally:
“I was wrong.”
Better.
Evan picked up a stick.
Meeting over emotionally.
He drew lines in dirt.
Diane sat five feet away.
No hug.
No forgiveness declaration.
Ten minutes later, we left.
May you like
He did not look back.
Neither did I.
