The following Saturday, Derek arrived ten minutes early.
He brought groceries.
I raised an eyebrow when I saw the bags.
“What are those?”
“Food.”
“I have food.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
He shrugged.
“I thought I'd contribute.”
I stepped aside.
“Put it in the kitchen.”
He smiled.
“Yes, ma'am.”
We spent the morning cooking.
It was almost ordinary.
That frightened me more than the difficult conversation had.
Ordinary could make a person forget.
I didn't want to forget.
But I also didn't want to live forever inside the worst moment of our lives.
Derek chopped vegetables while I prepared the chicken.
At one point, he looked at me.
“Do you remember when I used to help you cook?”
“You were terrible at chopping onions.”
“I was seven.”
“You still cut them too thick.”
He laughed.
The sound felt unfamiliar.
Then he became quiet.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He placed the knife down.
“I was thinking about Dad.”
“What about him?”
“He told me something last week.”
I waited.
“He said you always protected me.”
I looked at him.
“He said when I was a kid, you would make excuses for me.”
I continued cutting.
“He's right.”
“Why?”
I shrugged.
“Because I was your mother.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It was the only one I had.”
He leaned against the counter.
“Did you think I was special?”
I smiled faintly.
“I thought you were mine.”
He looked down.
“I think that became the problem.”
I stopped.
He continued.
“I grew up believing you'd always fix things.”
I nodded.
“That sounds right.”
“When I got suspended in school, you talked to the principal.”
“Yes.”
“When I wrecked Dad's car, you paid for the repairs.”
“Yes.”
“When I lost my first job, you covered my rent.”
“Yes.”
“When my marriage fell apart, you told me I could come home.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“So when I got angry, I thought you'd eventually make that okay too.”
The knife rested in my hand.
I set it down.
“That was never what I wanted.”
“I know now.”
He looked ashamed.
“I confused unconditional love with unconditional permission.”
That sentence stopped me.
I had no response.
Derek stared at the counter.
“I thought because you'd always love me, there would never be a consequence.”
I took a breath.
“That's something you need to remember for the rest of your life.”
“I will.”
We finished cooking.
We ate at the table.
For the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was sitting across from a threat.
I felt like I was sitting across from a person who was finally beginning to understand himself.
After lunch, Derek helped wash the dishes.
Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you ever want me gone before that night?”
I dried a plate.
“Yes.”
He stopped.
I looked at him.
“Not forever.”
His face fell.
“I wanted you to leave sometimes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
“I hate hearing that.”
“I know.”
He nodded.
“I need to hear it.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because if I don't hear what I did to you, I can pretend I'm changing without knowing what I'm changing from.”
I put the plate away.
“That is probably true.”
He leaned against the sink.
“I don't expect you to trust me yet.”
“Good.”
He laughed softly.
“You really don't make this easy.”
“No.”
“I think that's good.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because easy is what got us here.”
He left around four.
The next morning, I received a call from Robert.
“Derek told me he wants to make things right.”
“What does that mean?”
“He wants to pay back the money.”
I sat down.
“He doesn't owe me all of it.”
“He disagrees.”
“He can't afford it.”
“He says he'll pay it slowly.”
I smiled.
“That sounds like him.”
“He also wants to repair the wall.”
“I already did.”
“He knows.”
“Then why?”
Robert paused.
“Because he says he wants to repair something he can.”
I looked toward the hallway.
The new section of wall was barely noticeable.
Still, I understood.
“Let him.”
“I thought you would.”
The conversation ended.
That evening, I received another message from Derek.
Can I come by tomorrow after work?
I replied yes.
He came carrying a toolbox.
“You really don't need to do this.”
“I know.”
He crouched beside the baseboard.
“I want to.”
I watched him work.
The repair was small.
A loose piece of trim.
Something I could have fixed myself.
But he worked carefully.
When he finished, he stood.
“There.”
“It looks good.”
“Good.”
He packed the tools.
Then he looked at me.
“I'll keep doing little things.”
I nodded.
“Just don't use them to buy forgiveness.”
“I won't.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“Can I ask one more thing?”
“Yes.”
“If I keep doing this, will you eventually let me come home?”
I looked at him.
The question carried hope.
It also carried danger.
Because I knew how easy it would be to say yes.
I wanted to say yes.
But wanting something and being ready for it were not the same.
“I don't know.”
He nodded.
“That hurts.”
“I know.”
“But it's fair.”
I looked at him.
He was learning.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But he was learning.
—
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Just When I Thought We Were Rebuilding Something Safe, A Call From Robert Revealed a Problem Derek Had Kept From Me
The Night I Stopped Explaining Away My Son’s Anger and Finally Saw What Our Home Had Become
Part 6 of 25
