“More than anything,” she said instantly. “Even though I don’t deserve it.”
“Then don’t bring her up again,” he said. “If you want to see her, talk to us first. No secrets. No backdoors. No blaming her.”
She nodded, clutching a handkerchief.
“I agree,” he said. “I’ll do as you say. But… please, don’t separate me from her.”
The room fell silent.
I thought about my younger self.
I looked at my husband’s face. The anger was still there, but so was the child who had wanted his mother to appear for him.
He exhaled.
“We’ll try,” he said. “That’s all I can promise right now.”
He looked at me.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I thought of my younger self, crying in a bathroom over something I’d said. Then I looked at Jordan, sitting on the edge of her seat, hope written all over her face.
We established clear rules.
“I think our daughter deserves a grandmother.”
Jordan made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.
She lunged at him. Then at his grandmother. Then at me.
That was two weeks ago.
Jordan is still being punished.
We established clear rules. No visits without our knowledge. No secrets. If Grandma wants to spend time with Jordan, she sends us a message beforehand.
But my daughter can finally say, “I’m going to Grandma’s house.”
Since then we’ve had two short visits. One at our house. One at theirs.
There have been apologies. Awkward silences. Some stories. Some tears.
But my daughter can finally say, “I’m going to Grandma’s,” without lying about where she’ll sleep that night.
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