His mother had been quieter than usual that week.
She still smiled at the boys.
She still called me Libby-girl.
But sometimes I caught her watching Roscoe.
There was sadness in her expression.
One afternoon, I was helping her with her hair when she asked me to bring her son into the room.
I went downstairs.
"Roscoe, your mother wants to see you."
He stood immediately.
"Is something wrong?"
"She wants to talk."
He followed me.
His mother was sitting beside the window.
Her blanket covered her knees.
I adjusted her chair before stepping away.
Roscoe sat beside her.
"What's going on, Ma?"
She looked at him.
"I've been thinking about that afternoon."
He lowered his head.
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
I recognized the words.
They were almost the same ones I had said to him.
She continued.
"When I was sitting outside that restaurant, I was looking forward to seeing you."
He nodded.
"I know, Ma."
"I wanted to see your face when those boys showed you their sign."
She paused.
"I wanted to see my boy happy to come home."
Roscoe looked down.
His mother touched the blanket.
"Instead, I heard you talking about being lonely."
He closed his eyes briefly.
She looked at him.
"I know what loneliness feels like."
He looked up.
She told him about the years when his father had worked away from home.
She remembered the waiting.
The quiet evenings.
The responsibilities that didn't disappear simply because a husband was gone.
But she also remembered the way his father treated their marriage.
She wasn't claiming their life had been perfect.
She was telling him that being away had never been an excuse to disrespect the person waiting at home.
Roscoe listened.
His mother took a breath.
"Your wife took care of me."
He nodded.
"She did."
"She helped me when I couldn't stand."
His eyes became wet.
"She fed me when my hands wouldn't work properly."
His mother looked toward me.
I stood near the doorway.
She continued.
"She never made me feel ashamed of needing help."
I felt my throat tighten.
I had never expected her to say all of that.
Then she turned back to Roscoe.
"Do you know what hurt me most?"
He shook his head.
"You didn't seem ashamed."
He looked at her.
"You stood there with another woman while your grandchildren watched. And you acted as though everybody else was being unreasonable."
Roscoe covered his face with one hand.
His mother reached toward him.
"Boy, I love you."
He took her hand.
"But loving you doesn't mean I have to approve of everything you do."
He nodded.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Don't make your wife carry the weight of your choices."
He began to cry.
Not loudly.
He simply lowered his head and held his mother's hand.
I had never seen him cry like that.
His mother stroked his fingers.
I quietly stepped into the hallway.
I gave them time.
A few minutes later, Roscoe came out.
His eyes were red.
He stopped beside me.
"She shouldn't have had to see that."
"No."
He looked toward the bedroom.
"I hurt her too."
I nodded.
He leaned against the wall.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said he wished he could go back to that afternoon.
I understood.
I wished I could go back too.
I wished I could return to the moment before I saw him open the passenger door.
I wished the boys had never asked who the woman was.
I wished his mother had never needed to wheel herself across that parking lot to discover what her son was doing.
But wishes couldn't change what had happened.
I looked at Roscoe.
"We can't go back."
He nodded.
"No."
"We can only decide what happens from here."
He looked at me.
Then he went back into his mother's room.
That evening, I sat beside her.
She was tired.
I brushed her hair.
She looked at me through the mirror.
"Are you all right, Libby-girl?"
I smiled.
"I'm trying."
She squeezed my hand.
"So am I."
For the first time, I realized that we were both grieving something.
I was grieving the marriage I thought I had.
She was grieving the son she believed she had raised.
And neither of us could fix that by pretending the truth hadn't happened.
Click here to continue reading: PART 20: Forty Years Could Not Be Undone in One Afternoon, but I Finally Understood That My Future Did Not Have to Be Built Around His Choices
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 19 of 20
