“I told him I’d think about it.” Her fingers twisted a dish towel in her lap. “I believe people deserve forgiveness, Mia.”
“Forgiveness isn’t the same thing as moving him back in. That’s a whole different deal.”
His missed call sat at the top of her screen. I picked up her phone and typed:
“Come to a family reunion dinner on Sunday at 7 p.m. All the kids will be there. Wear your best suit. I’ll send the address.”
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mia, what are you doing?”
“Setting something straight.”
His reply came quickly:
“Dear, thank you for this second chance. I can’t wait to become a family again.”
Dear.
Like she was a stranger, not the woman he’d left holding everything.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, and memory dragged me back ten years.
I was fifteen, sitting on a metal chair in the church basement. My younger siblings swung their feet, confused but quiet. Dad stood in front of us with a Bible in his hand, like he was about to preach.
Mom sat off to the side, belly huge, ankles swollen, eyes worse. A tissue trembled in her fist.
“Kids,” he said, “God is calling me elsewhere.”
Liam frowned. “Like another church?”
Dad gave him a soft, rehearsed smile. “Something like that.”
He talked about “a new season” and “obedience.” He never said, “I’m leaving your mother.” He never mentioned the twenty-two-year-old soprano. He never mentioned the suitcase already in his trunk.
That night I sat outside their bedroom door and listened.
“We have nine children. I’m due in four weeks,” Mom sobbed.
“I deserve to be happy,” he said. “I’ve given twenty-five years to this family. God doesn’t want me miserable.”
“You’re their father.”
