We left the restaurant a little later.
The afternoon light had started to fade.
I helped his mother into the van.
Her wheelchair went into the back.
The boys climbed into their seats.
I checked their belts.
The oldest placed the cardboard sign beside him.
He was careful not to bend it any further.
Roscoe said he would take his pickup home.
He had left it at the truck stop, as usual.
I didn't argue.
I didn't ask whether Jasmine would be going with him.
I didn't ask anything.
He stood beside the van while I closed the back door.
"Lib."
I looked at him.
"We'll talk when I get home."
I nodded.
"All right."
He looked toward his mother.
She didn't say anything.
Then he walked away.
I watched him for a moment.
He headed toward the parking area where his pickup was waiting.
I got into the driver's seat.
The boys were quiet.
I started the engine.
Nobody asked about the surprise anymore.
The road home seemed longer than it had that morning.
The youngest eventually leaned his head against the seat.
The middle one looked out the window.
The oldest kept glancing at the sign.
I wanted to tell them that none of this was their fault.
I wanted to tell them Grandpa loved them.
But I didn't know what I could promise anymore.
So I said something simpler.
"You boys didn't do anything wrong today."
The oldest looked at me.
"Is Grandpa mad at us?"
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"No, sweetheart."
"Then why didn't he hug us?"
I took a breath.
"Grandpa made some bad choices."
The boy looked down.
I didn't explain more.
They were children.
They didn't need to carry the details of a marriage that had taken forty years to build.
His mother was quiet in the back.
After a while, she spoke.
"Libby-girl?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for bringing me."
I glanced at her in the mirror.
"Of course."
She looked toward the boys.
"I wish they'd had a better afternoon."
I swallowed.
"So do I."
She didn't say anything else.
We drove on.
The boys eventually began whispering to each other.
I couldn't hear everything.
I heard the youngest ask whether Grandpa would still bring their presents.
The middle one said probably.
The oldest didn't answer.
I kept driving.
When we got home, I helped his mother into the house.
The boys went to the living room.
I carried her blanket and put it over the back of her chair.
Then I made sure she was comfortable.
She looked tired.
I asked whether she wanted to rest.
She nodded.
I helped her get settled.
Before I left, she reached for my hand.
"Come sit with me later."
"I will."
She held my fingers a little longer.
Then she let go.
I went into the kitchen.
The house looked exactly as it had that morning.
The dishes were where I had left them.
A small pile of laundry was waiting.
There was a grocery list on the counter.
Nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
I put the kettle on.
The sound of the water heating filled the kitchen.
I looked at the empty place where I usually set Roscoe's cooler.
For years, that had been part of my routine.
I would clean it.
Pack it.
Put the sandwiches inside.
Add the oranges.
Then I would tell him to be careful.
Sometimes he kissed my cheek before leaving.
Sometimes he was already thinking about the road.
I had never thought much about the difference.
That afternoon, I didn't prepare anything for him.
I made tea for myself.
I sat at the kitchen table.
The phone was quiet.
I looked at the clock.
Roscoe hadn't arrived yet.
I knew he would eventually come home.
He always did.
But I no longer felt the same relief when I imagined hearing his pickup.
That was a strange feeling.
For forty years, his arrival had meant something familiar.
Now I didn't know what it meant.
The boys came into the kitchen.
The youngest asked for a snack.
I got him one.
The middle one wanted something to drink.
I poured it.
The oldest stood near the counter.
He was holding the pizza box sign.
"Grandma?"
"Yes?"
"Should I throw this away?"
I looked at it.
The marker had smudged in one place.
The cardboard was bent.
But the boys had made it with care.
"No, sweetheart."
I took it gently.
"We'll keep it for now."
He nodded.
I put it on the counter.
It stayed there beside the grocery list.
A reminder of what the afternoon was supposed to be.
Later, I went into his mother's room.
She was awake.
Her eyes were open.
I sat beside her.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she asked me something.
"How long have you known?"
I looked at her.
"Known what?"
She turned her face toward me.
"That he was seeing other women."
I couldn't answer.
Because I hadn't known.
Not really.
I had suspected nothing.
I had trusted him.
And that was the truth.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: His Mother Asked Me Whether I Had Known Before That Afternoon, and I Finally Had to Admit the Truth
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 7 of 20
