My dad, Henry, called on a Tuesday while I was unloading groceries from my car. I saw Mom’s name light up my screen and almost ignored it because she was supposed to be in class.
Then the call went to voicemail, and a text popped up: “He called. Your father. Can you come over?”
“Apparently, the choir girl is gone.”
By the time I walked into the kitchen, a few of my siblings were pretending not to eavesdrop. Mom sat at the table with her phone in front of her like it might bite. Her eyes were red, but her voice stayed steady.
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“He wants to come home.”
I actually laughed. “Home. Like this home? Our home?”
She nodded. “Apparently, the choir girl is gone. He says he’s made mistakes. He says he misses us.”
I dropped my keys and sat across from her. “Mom, he walked out when you were eight months pregnant with Hannah. He didn’t just make mistakes. He blew everything up.”
“I believe people deserve forgiveness.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I remember.”
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Behind her, ten school pictures lined the wall in mismatched frames. All the “blessings” he bragged about from the pulpit before he bailed.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“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.”
“I can’t wait to become a family again.”
