“Your room is just as you left it,” I told Emma. “Though I’m afraid the stuffed animals might be a bit childish for you now.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, following me upstairs. “I remember how Dad used to read to us in that room when we visited.”
“He did,” I confirmed, smiling at the memory. “Your grandfather would sit in that rocking chair by the window and your dad would do all the character voices.”
Emma set her backpack on the bed and glanced around the room.
“Violet said you were getting rid of all the kids stuff. She told us you were turning our rooms into some kind of art studio.”
I blinked in surprise.
“I would never do that. These rooms will always be here for you.”
Emma seemed to consider this, comparing it against whatever narrative Violet had constructed.
“She also said you didn’t really want us to visit, that it was too much trouble for you.”
My heart achd at the thought of my grandchildren believing I didn’t want them around.
“Emma, that’s simply not true. I’ve always wanted to see more of you and Jack. Always.”
“That’s what Dad said, too. Now that he’s—”
She trailed off, unsure how to describe the current situation.
“Now that he’s seeing things more clearly,” I supplied gently.
She nodded, then surprised me by asking, “Was Violet always mean to you, Grandma?”
The question caught me off guard.
I hesitated, not wanting to badmouth their stepmother, but also unwilling to lie.
“Violet and I had different ideas about family,” I said carefully. “Sometimes that created tension.”
Emma’s perceptive gaze told me she understood more than I was saying.
“She didn’t like when Dad paid attention to you or us. Really, she always wanted to be the most important person.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
“That must have been difficult for you and Jack.”
Emma shrugged with the practiced nonchalants of a teenager.
“We got used to it. Dad was different when she was around. Less fun, more worried about making her happy.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside me.
Emma joined me, her long legs, so like her father’s, stretched out in front of her.
“Your dad loves you very much,” I told her. “Sometimes adults make mistakes or get confused about what’s important, but that doesn’t change how much he loves you.”
“I know,” she said softly. “He seems happier now, even though he’s sad about Violet. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense,” I assured her.
Downstairs, I could hear Jack’s excited voice as he showed Thomas something on his tablet.
The sound of male laughter, so like George’s, filled the house in a way it hadn’t for years.
That evening, we ate dinner around the kitchen table.
Thomas ordered pizza and we played board games afterward. Simple activities that had once been regular occurrences in our family, but had fallen away under Violet’s influence.
As I watched Thomas laughing with his children, I felt both joy and sorrow.
Joy at seeing this side of my son again, the playful father who had been submerged beneath Violet’s demands and manipulations.
Sorrow that it had taken George’s death and such painful revelations to bring him back.
Later, after the children had gone to bed, Thomas found me in the study looking through old photo albums.
“They’ve missed you,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “We all have, really.”
I looked up at my son, so much like his father in the dim lamplight.
“I’ve missed you, too. All of you.”
“I want to fix this, Mom. I want to be the son Dad would be proud of.”
I smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the spring evening.
“You already are, Thomas. You already are.”
6 months after George’s death, I finally felt ready to make changes to the house.
Not drastic renovations, but small adjustments that would make the space feel like mine alone.
For decades, every decision had been a compromise.