Chapter 16 - THE FIRST TIME ROSE SAID SHE MISSED HER
Rose was nine when she said it.
We were driving home from school.
Nothing dramatic had happened.
No court date.
No therapy appointment.
No anniversary of the slap.
She was eating pretzels from a paper bag and complaining about a classmate who always took the yellow marker.
Then she said:
“I miss Grandma Beth sometimes.”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
Not enough for Rose to notice.
I hoped.
For two years, I had prepared for almost every version of this conversation except the honest one.
I had prepared for:
I hate her.
I never want to see her.
Why did she hit me?
Was it my fault?
Did Daddy know she was bad?
I had answers for those.
Careful ones.
Therapist-approved ones.
I did not have an answer for missing someone dangerous.
“What do you miss?” I asked.
Rose looked out the window.
“Her pancakes.”
That almost broke me.
Beth made terrible pancakes.
Too much vanilla.
Edges always burned.
Rose used to cover them in whipped cream and call them cloud cakes.
“What else?”
“She used to sing the wrong words to songs.”
“That is true.”
“And she gave me the purple blanket.”
“Yes.”
Rose became quiet.
“Am I bad if I miss her?”
There it was.
Not really about Beth.
About whether love itself could become evidence against what happened.
“No.”
“Even though she hit me?”
“Yes.”
“Even though she lied?”
“Yes.”
Rose frowned.
“How?”
I slowed at a red light.
Because adults want morality to be easier for children than it is for us.
Good people.
Bad people.
Safe people.
Dangerous people.
Love.
No love.
But Rose had lived inside something more complicated.
Beth had loved her.
And hurt her.
Both had been true.
“Missing something good about a person doesn’t mean the bad thing didn’t happen,” I said.
Rose considered that.
“Do you miss Daddy?”
The question surprised me.
“Sometimes.”
“But you don’t want to marry him again.”
“No.”
“Same thing?”
“Something like that.”
She ate another pretzel.
“Can I see Grandma?”
My stomach dropped.
The light turned green.
I drove.
Did not answer immediately.
Rose noticed.
“You always say I’m allowed to ask.”
“You are.”
“Then why are you making your lawyer face?”
“I don’t have a lawyer face.”
“You absolutely do.”
I almost laughed.
Then I said:
“Seeing her would need to be planned carefully.”
“I know.”
“With Dr. Brennan.”
“Okay.”
“And your dad.”
“Okay.”
“And you can change your mind.”
“Okay.”
Rose waited.
“So?”
I wanted to say no.
Every cell in my body said no.
I remembered Beth’s hand moving.
Rose’s head turning.
The red mark.
Claire’s spit on my face.
David telling me it would be gone by morning.
The papers.
The guardianship petition.
The bedroom plan.
The ledger.
The entire structure Beth had built around the belief that children belonged to the strongest adult in the room.
I wanted to protect Rose from ever standing near that again.
Then another memory arrived.
Rose at seven.
“What are you learning?”
“That protecting you doesn’t mean deciding everything for you.”
Children remember promises adults make when adults hope they will remain theoretical.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Brennan.”
Rose smiled.
Not because the answer was yes.
Because the answer was not automatically no.
That evening, I called David.
“Rose asked to see your mother.”
He went silent.
Then:
“What did you say?”
“That we’d discuss it.”
Another pause.
“What do you think?”
I almost laughed.
Years earlier, David would have told me what his mother deserved before asking what Rose wanted.
Now he asked me.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Me neither.”
That mattered.
“Has Beth asked?”
“Not recently.”
“Why?”
“My therapist told her repeated requests make Rose responsible for her feelings.”
I stared at the wall.
“Did Beth understand that?”
“Eventually.”
Dangerous word.
But this time, David laughed softly before I could say anything.
“I know. Bad word.”
I smiled despite myself.
“What does she want?”
“To see Rose.”
“Of course.”
“But she says she understands wanting it doesn’t mean she gets it.”
That sentence did not erase anything.
Still, I noticed.
The first supervised meeting was scheduled six weeks later.
Rose changed her mind the morning of it.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What do we tell Grandma?”
“Adults will handle that.”
Her shoulders loosened.
The second scheduled meeting happened three months later.
Rose went.
I waited outside the therapy room.
David sat across the hallway.
Neither of us spoke much.
Forty-three minutes later, the door opened.
Rose came out holding nothing.
No gift.
No letter.
No emotional burden disguised as a stuffed animal.
“How was it?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not right now.”
“Okay.”
On the drive home, she said:
“She looks older.”
“Yes.”
“She cried.”
My chest tightened.
“Did she make you comfort her?”
“No.”
“Did that feel weird?”
“Kind of.”
Then Rose said:
“She said the dress was mine.”
I looked at her in the mirror.
“What did you say?”
“I know.”
There it was again.
May you like
I know.
Only this time, the sentence had crossed three years of family history and returned unchanged.
