“Not her being cross.”
“You can miss one thing without wanting everything back.”
He thought about that.
Then asked whether I was lonely.
“Sometimes.”
His shoulders tightened.
I noticed.
“That isn’t yours to fix.”
“Can I sit here anyway?”
“Of course.”
He came beside me.
We played the card game.
I had to learn it.
He corrected me repeatedly.
At one point, he looked annoyed.
“You’re not listening.”
I put the cards down.
“You’re right. Explain that part again.”
He did.
The game continued.
I had never been so grateful to be told I was doing something badly.
He felt safe enough to be irritated.
He did not immediately apologize for it.
That was a kind of trust worth protecting.
My uncle Edmund visited in early summer.
He was my mother’s biological brother.
He had been at the dinner.
He asked whether Theo would like to help him build a bird feeder.
Theo agreed.
They worked on the terrace.
I stayed within hearing distance.
Not to supervise every word.
Because the adults were still rebuilding what they should have protected sooner.
Edmund began by apologizing for remaining quiet.
Theo looked at the screws arranged on the table.
“Did you know about Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Before?”
“For many years.”
“Then why didn’t you say?”
Edmund took a breath.
“I expected someone else to handle it.”
The answer was honest.
Theo considered it.
“Grandma did.”
“Yes.”
They worked quietly for a while.
Then Edmund said:
“I should have helped before she needed to.”
