The next few days were uncomfortable.
Not because Roscoe shouted.
He didn't.
Not because I shouted either.
I didn't.
It was the quiet that made everything difficult.
We moved around the house carefully.
He stayed downstairs more than usual.
I continued helping his mother.
The boys came over as planned.
They were still excited to see their grandfather, but something had changed.
They didn't run toward him the way they normally did.
The youngest watched him from the living room.
The middle one asked whether Grandpa was going to drive away again.
The oldest didn't ask anything.
I noticed that he kept the cardboard sign in his bedroom.
I didn't bring it up.
One afternoon, Roscoe found me making a grocery list.
He stood beside the refrigerator.
"What do we need?"
I looked at the paper.
"Milk. Bread. Apples."
He nodded.
Then he noticed the little oranges written near the bottom.
"Those are for me?"
I looked at the list.
I had written them without thinking.
It was an old habit.
I crossed them out.
Roscoe watched me.
"You don't have to do that."
I put the pen down.
"I know."
He seemed to want to say something else.
But he didn't.
I finished the list.
Then I went to the store.
When I returned, he was sitting in the living room with his mother.
She was telling him something about the boys.
He was listening.
Really listening.
I stood in the doorway for a moment.
I hadn't seen that look on his face in a while.
His mother noticed me.
"Libby-girl, did you get the milk?"
"Yes."
She smiled.
"Good. I wanted some with supper."
I put the groceries away.
The oranges stayed in the bag.
I didn't know what to do with them.
That evening, the boys asked whether Grandpa could read them a story.
Roscoe looked at me first.
I nodded.
He went into the living room.
The three boys gathered around him.
The youngest climbed onto the couch.
The middle one sat on the floor.
The oldest brought a book.
I watched from the kitchen.
Roscoe read slowly.
He stumbled over one word.
The boys laughed.
He laughed too.
For a few minutes, the room sounded familiar again.
But I knew the afternoon at the truck stop hadn't vanished.
The children might not understand everything.
They still remembered.
I could see it in the way the oldest watched his grandfather.
Later, after the boys had gone to bed, Roscoe came into the kitchen.
He stood near the counter.
"I've been thinking."
I continued drying a plate.
"About what?"
"About going back out on the road."
I turned.
His next trip was approaching.
Normally, by that point, I would already have washed his clothes.
His cooler would be ready.
The little oranges would be in the refrigerator.
But I hadn't done any of that.
He looked at me.
"I don't know if I should leave things like this."
I put the plate away.
"That's something you'll have to decide."
He frowned slightly.
"I thought you'd tell me what you wanted."
I looked at him.
"I want honesty."
He nodded.
"And?"
"I want respect."
He looked down.
"And the boys?"
"They need to know they can trust the people they love."
He didn't answer.
I sat at the table.
He remained standing.
I asked him whether he had been honest with me before that afternoon.
He looked at the floor.
Then he admitted that Jasmine had been traveling with him more than once.
I waited.
He said there had been other women too.
I felt my stomach tighten.
I asked whether he had been seeing them during the years he had been away.
He didn't give me a clear answer at first.
Then he admitted that it hadn't been limited to one recent trip.
I closed my eyes.
I had suspected nothing.
That was the hardest part.
Not that I had failed to discover it.
That he had allowed me to keep living a life built on something he knew wasn't true.
I asked him why he had never told me.
He said he hadn't wanted to hurt me.
I almost laughed.
But there was no humor in it.
"You didn't want to hurt me, so you kept doing it?"
He looked at me.
He had no answer.
I got up and put the dish towel away.
I needed something to do with my hands.
When I returned, he was still sitting there.
He said he knew he had made a mess.
I told him that wasn't a strong enough description.
He nodded.
I didn't ask him to promise anything.
I didn't ask him to swear he would never do it again.
I had heard enough words.
I needed to see what kind of man he was willing to be when nobody was watching.
That night, I went to bed alone.
Roscoe stayed downstairs.
I didn't know whether he was thinking about Jasmine.
I didn't know whether he was thinking about his mother.
I only knew that I was thinking about the little oranges.
How many times had I packed them?
How many times had I sent him away with everything he liked?
I had treated those small preparations as acts of love.
I still believed they were.
But I was beginning to understand that love could not be measured only by what one person was willing to give.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: When Roscoe Asked Whether I Still Wanted Him Home, I Realized He Had Finally Asked Me a Question He Should Have Asked Years Ago
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 11 of 20
