Kevin placed the diploma on the nearby table.
He kept the envelope in his hand.
Then he turned toward me.
"Grandma, I want to say something without hiding behind this microphone."
I looked at him.
He stepped closer.
"I was angry."
I nodded.
"I know."
"I kept thinking about that letter."
He looked down.
"I read it more than once."
My chest tightened.
"Every time I read it, I thought of another question I wanted to ask you."
I reached for his hand.
He continued.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you decide I wasn't ready? Why did you think you had to carry it alone?"
I couldn't answer every question.
I could only look at him.
"I thought I had more time," I finally said.
He nodded.
"That's what I thought too."
I lowered my head.
"I was wrong."
He squeezed my hand.
"I know."
There was no anger in his voice now.
Only sadness.
And something else.
Relief, perhaps.
He looked toward the audience.
"I spent the last month avoiding the person I wanted to ask those questions."
He took a breath.
"I told myself I needed distance."
He looked at me.
"But the longer I stayed silent, the worse I felt."
I thought about all those evenings.
All those unanswered calls.
All the times I had picked up my phone and put it down again.
He continued.
"I knew she was probably wondering what she had done."
My eyes filled.
"I knew she might think she had failed me."
He paused.
"And I hated knowing that I had made her feel that way."
I shook my head.
"Kevin, sweetheart."
He turned toward me.
"Let me finish."
I nodded.
He wiped his face.
"I'm sorry I made you spend those weeks wondering whether I still loved you."
I began crying harder.
He took both my hands.
"I never stopped loving you."
I tried to speak.
He continued.
"I was hurt. I was confused. I didn't know how to talk about what I had found."
He looked at the envelope.
"So I did the worst thing I could have done."
He lowered his head.
"I shut you out."
I touched his cheek.
"You were hurting too."
He nodded.
"But I shouldn't have punished you with silence."
I looked at him.
There were so many things I wanted to say.
I wanted to tell him that I had missed his calls.
That I had kept checking my phone.
That I had baked his favorite cookies because I didn't know what else to do.
But I didn't want him to feel that he had to make my pain disappear.
So I said the simplest thing.
"I missed you."
His face crumpled.
"I missed you too."
He leaned forward.
I put my arms around him.
This time, the embrace lasted longer.
I could feel the fabric of his graduation gown against my cheek.
I could hear him breathing unevenly.
He was crying.
So was I.
When he pulled away, he looked at the little bouquet.
One flower had nearly come loose.
He carefully straightened it.
"You always bring flowers when you don't know what to say."
I laughed.
It was a small laugh.
But it felt good.
"Maybe I'm not very good at speeches."
He smiled.
"Neither am I."
For a moment, we stood together without saying anything.
Then Kevin looked toward the audience.
"I want to read something."
He lifted the envelope.
My heart began beating faster.
I knew what he was holding.
And I knew he was finally ready to share it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: When He Began Reading the Words His Parents Had Left Behind, I Finally Understood Why He Had Wanted Everyone to Hear Them
He Had Called Me Every Evening for Four Years, Until One Phone Call Made Me Wonder What I Had Done Wrong
Part 11 of 20
