Roscoe was gone.
The house was quiet again.
The boys played in the living room.
I made lunch for them.
His mother asked whether I could bring her closer to the window.
I adjusted her wheelchair and helped position her comfortably.
Then I covered her knees.
She watched me for a moment.
"You're tired."
I smiled.
"A little."
She shook her head.
"More than a little."
I didn't argue.
She had known me long enough to recognize when I was hiding something.
I brought her a glass of water.
Then I sat beside her.
For a while, we watched the boys.
The youngest was building something with blocks.
The middle one kept knocking it down by accident.
The oldest was trying to help.
His mother smiled.
"They're good boys."
"They are."
"Roscoe was like that when he was little."
I looked at her.
"Was he?"
She nodded.
"He used to build things with whatever he could find."
She laughed softly.
"Your husband was always taking things apart."
I smiled.
I could imagine him as a little boy.
A boy with dirty hands and a stubborn expression.
It was difficult to connect that child with the man I had watched beside the truck.
His mother noticed my expression.
"I know what you're thinking."
I looked at her.
She reached for my hand.
"He's still my son. But I know he has hurt you."
I nodded.
She continued.
"I don't want you thinking you have to keep everything together just because I live here."
I squeezed her hand.
"You aren't a burden."
"I know you don't think that."
She looked toward the boys.
"But I don't want my needs to become another reason you forget yourself."
I felt my eyes sting.
I hadn't expected her to say that.
I had always thought of caring for her as something I simply had to do.
She had become part of my daily life.
I knew her medicines.
Her favorite breakfast.
The way she liked her hair brushed.
I knew when she was uncomfortable before she said anything.
I loved her.
But I was tired.
And I hadn't admitted that to anyone.
She touched my arm.
"You've done more than enough."
I looked down.
"Thank you."
That afternoon, she asked me to help her get ready.
She wanted to sit in the living room with the boys.
I helped her wash her face.
I brushed her hair.
Then I brought her into the room.
The boys greeted her.
The youngest showed her a drawing.
She praised it.
The middle one asked whether she wanted to see his blocks.
She said she did.
I stood nearby, watching them.
For a little while, the house felt peaceful.
Then the telephone rang.
It was Roscoe.
I answered.
"Hello."
"Hey, Lib."
His voice sounded different.
Not cheerful.
Not angry.
Just tired.
"How's everybody?"
"Fine."
He asked about his mother.
I told him she was sitting with the boys.
He asked whether he could speak to her.
I carried the phone over.
"Your son wants to talk to you."
She took it.
"Hello, boy."
I heard Roscoe say something.
She listened.
Then she answered.
"Yes, I'm comfortable."
Another pause.
Then she said something I couldn't hear clearly.
Her expression became serious.
She looked toward me.
I moved a little farther away.
I didn't want to listen to their private conversation.
But I heard her say his name.
"Roscoe, listen to me."
She waited.
"I didn't raise you to think being a man meant doing whatever you wanted."
I stopped moving.
She continued.
"Your wife has been good to this family."
I looked down.
"She has cared for me when you were away. She has raised those boys' expectations of you with nothing but kind words."
There was a long silence.
Then his mother spoke again.
"Don't ask her to pretend you didn't hurt her."
I heard a faint response from the telephone.
She shook her head.
"No. You need to understand that yourself."
She listened for another moment.
Then she handed me the phone.
"He wants to speak to you."
I took it.
"Hello?"
Roscoe was quiet.
Then he asked whether I was all right.
I told him I was.
He said he had been thinking about what his mother told him.
I listened.
He said he hadn't realized how much she depended on me.
I looked toward her.
She was watching the boys.
I answered quietly.
"She's your mother, Roscoe."
"I know."
"She deserves to feel cared for."
"I know, Lib."
He paused.
Then he said he was sorry.
I didn't rush to answer.
He repeated it.
This time, he sounded less like a man trying to end an uncomfortable conversation.
I told him I had heard his apology.
But I wasn't ready to tell him everything was forgiven.
He said he understood.
Then he asked me to tell his mother he would call again.
I said I would.
When I hung up, she looked at me.
"What did he say?"
"He apologized."
She nodded.
"That's a beginning."
I sat beside her.
Neither of us said anything else.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: Three Weeks Had Always Meant a Long Wait, but This Time I Used Those Days to Think About What I Wanted
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 14 of 20
