The children asked whether they could visit Daniel's apartment on Saturday.
He was pleased when I told him.
He asked whether they could bring the card.
“They already brought it to the hospital,” I said.
“I know. I just want to see it.”
“They'll bring it.”
He smiled.
I didn't know whether he would be well enough to go home that weekend.
The doctors were still watching him.
His days were uneven.
Some mornings he could sit up and talk.
Other times, he slept through most of the afternoon.
So we made no promises.
On Saturday, the children and I went to his apartment without him.
He was still in the hospital.
The children wanted to see where he had lived.
I unlocked the door.
The younger one stepped inside first.
“It's smaller than I thought.”
“It is,” I said.
The older one looked around.
“Where's Dad's room?”
I showed them.
The bed was neatly made.
A folded blanket sat at the end.
His slippers were beside the wall.
The children moved slowly.
They were seeing a part of their father they had never known.
The younger one noticed the plant near the window.
“Is this the plant Dad told us about?”
“I think so.”
One side had several brown leaves.
The child touched one gently.
“He didn't take care of it very well.”
I smiled.
“He was never very good with plants.”
The older one walked toward the bookshelf.
They found the photograph.
“That's us.”
“Yes.”
“Was this taken at the beach?”
I nodded.
They picked up the frame.
The cracked corner caught their attention.
“It's broken.”
“Just a little.”
The older child turned it over and saw the date.
“Dad kept the date on it.”
“He did.”
The younger one looked at me.
“Did he look at this every day?”
“I don't know.”
But I had a feeling he did.
They put the photograph back carefully.
Then they noticed the two chairs beside the table.
“Did Dad eat here?”
“Probably.”
“By himself?”
“Yes.”
The younger one looked at the empty second chair.
“Why did he have two?”
I had no answer.
Maybe Daniel had bought two because that was what people usually bought.
Maybe he had hoped someone would visit.
Maybe he simply hadn't wanted to eat at a table with only one chair.
I didn't want to invent an answer.
“I don't know,” I said.
The older child sat down.
“It's strange being here.”
“I know.”
“It's like we knew Dad, but we didn't know this part.”
I sat opposite.
“You knew your father. You just didn't know everything he was going through.”
“Why didn't he let us?”
“Because he was afraid.”
The younger one looked at the plant.
“Adults always say they're protecting you.”
I didn't know what to say.
The child was right.
We stayed for a while.
The children looked through the books.
They found a small stack of old photographs in a drawer.
Some were from birthdays.
Some were from school events.
There were pictures of the three of them together.
There was one of Daniel holding both children when they were younger.
The older one laughed.
“I don't remember this.”
“You were very small.”
The younger one took the picture.
“Dad looks happy.”
“He was.”
They placed the photographs in a neat pile.
Then the older child found the old shopping list I had left on the table.
“What's this?”
I looked at it.
“Something your father kept.”
The child read the words.
“Milk, bread, apples.”
Then they saw the last line.
“Don't forget to pick up the children.”
They looked at me.
“Why did Dad keep this?”
“I think it reminded him of home.”
The older child folded it carefully.
“Can I take a picture of it?”
“Of course.”
They took a photograph and returned the paper to the table.
Before we left, I looked around the apartment one more time.
It no longer seemed like a place where Daniel had built a new life.
It seemed like a place where he had tried to keep the old one from disappearing.
That didn't make the choices he had made right.
But it helped me understand the loneliness behind them.
On the drive home, the children were quiet.
Then the younger one spoke.
“I want Dad to come back to the house.”
I kept my eyes on the road.
“Why?”
“So we can all have dinner together.”
The older child nodded.
“Not like before. Just dinner.”
I swallowed.
“We can ask him.”
That evening, Daniel called.
The children took turns talking to him.
They told him about the apartment.
They told him the plant needed attention.
They told him they had found the photograph and the shopping list.
He laughed softly.
“You found that old paper?”
“Yes,” the younger one said. “Why did you keep it?”
Daniel was quiet.
Then he answered.
“Because it reminded me of when we were all together.”
The child didn't ask anything else.
They talked about the weekend.
After the call, I took the phone.
“They want to have dinner with you at the house when you're able.”
Daniel's voice became softer.
“Would that be all right?”
“Yes.”
“I don't want to make things difficult.”
“It's dinner, Daniel.”
“I know.”
“Then let it be dinner.”
He breathed out.
“Thank you.”
I ended the call and stood in the kitchen.
The old wooden chair was still there.
The one he had repaired with a small piece of wood under one leg.
I ran my hand over the back.
I had kept it after the divorce.
At first, I had told myself it was because it was useful.
Later, I had stopped thinking about it.
Now I wondered whether I had kept it because it belonged to him.
I pulled it away from the table.
The little piece of wood was still underneath.
I remembered Daniel kneeling on the floor years earlier, trying to stop the chair from rocking.
He had found a scrap of wood and worked until it sat evenly.
I had teased him that he could repair anything except the kitchen drawer that always stuck.
He had laughed.
I sat down.
The chair didn't wobble.
For the first time in years, I wished he were there to hear me say it.
The following afternoon, the doctor called.
Daniel was stable enough to discuss a possible discharge plan, though there were still details to work through.
I wrote everything down.
I asked questions.
I made sure I understood what support he might need and what arrangements would have to be made.
When I visited later, Daniel looked at the notes in my hand.
“You've been busy.”
“I've been listening.”
He smiled.
“I don't want you to feel you have to take care of everything.”
“I won't.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
I sat beside him.
“We can work out what is possible. You don't have to decide everything alone, but you also don't get to decide everything for everyone.”
He gave a small nod.
“That's fair.”
I looked at him.
“And if the children want to visit, we make room for that.”
“I want them to.”
“Good.”
He looked toward the window.
“Would you sit with us at dinner?”
I knew what he meant.
Not just bring the children and leave.
Sit at the same table.
Eat with him.
Be there.
I thought about it.
“Yes,” I said. “When you're home and well enough.”
He looked relieved.
I didn't know what that dinner would mean.
It wouldn't make us married again.
It wouldn't erase the divorce.
It wouldn't return the years.
But it would give the children one ordinary evening with both parents in the same room.
And that mattered.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: THE CHAIR BESIDE THE TABLE
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 15 of 20
