“No.”
“Mary—”
“No, George.”
I went to the bedroom, put on lipstick, slipped the screenshot into my purse, and drove to my son’s house.
Brittany opened the door.
“Hello, Brittany.”
Her eyes immediately dropped toward my purse.
“I don’t want a fight,” I said. “I’d like to have Sunday dinner with the children.”
“No.”
Behind her, I heard my granddaughter laughing.
The sound nearly broke me.
“I’ll wait for Edward.”
A few minutes later, my son’s truck pulled into the driveway.
“Mom?”
I handed him the screenshot.
His face changed as he read it.
“Brit,” he said quietly. “Did you write this?”
“I deleted it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
She folded her arms.
“I was angry.”
Edward looked at me.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
I shook my head.
“Not yet. I don’t want an apology. I want my family back.”
That Sunday, we invited everyone to dinner.
The grandchildren ran through the sprinkler while George grilled hamburgers. Brittany sat stiffly at the patio table, barely speaking.
After dinner, the children found an old basket of family photographs.
Soon the table was covered with pictures from four decades of our lives.
There was Edward as a toddler, George with dark hair, and me pregnant in a yellow dress. There were vacation pictures, Christmas mornings, birthday parties and embarrassing hairstyles we’d all forgotten.
Then my grandson Caleb found the beach photograph.
