Page 58 of Fourth and Long

She might have done the best she could. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. I pick up another book. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It obviously matters quite a bit if you can’t pass on a simple message.” It’s so unlike her to push. At the first sign of discord, she usually trots away.

The book lands with a deafening thud as it slips from my fingers. “It isn’t simple. At least, not for me. I don’t know if I feel comfortable playing messenger between you and a man you’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist.”

She scoffs. “You saw him every week. He took his responsibilities toward you seriously.” The bitterness in her voice surrounds us.

My fists tighten. “I saw him, but I wasn’t allowed to mention him around you.”

“Oh, please,” she says with a wave of her hand. “We talked about your father.”

“Oh, really? Can you give me one example?” I hold up a single finger.

She looks at the ceiling. If she’s trying to remember, she’s going to be standing there forever. “It was…he was the love of my life.” Her voice is quiet, her misery readily apparent.

Her words should spur sympathy, but I’m way past sympathy. “It’s been eighteen years. You’ve been without him a lot longer than you were with him. Don’t you think it’s well past time to move on?”

“Why do you think I’m selling the house? I’m trying,” she argues.

“You’re moving out. You’re not moving on. You’re still avoiding him and what he did.”

“You don’t understand. You’ve never understood.”

“He cheated on you with another woman and then left you and your two children. You’re supposed to hate him.”

Eighteen years of anger at her is surging within me, and I can’t seem to stop it.

“I do hate him.” She doesn’t make eye contact.

I scoff. “You don’t. Maybe you wish you hated him. But you don’t.”

Her shoulders drop. “You have no idea what it’s like.”

She isn’t wrong. I’ve never had a broken heart, and yet, I’ve had a front row seat to her grief from the very beginning. “I could recommend someone for you to talk to. I know a couple of people who would be a good fit for you.”

She reels back as if I’ve struck her. “You think I need therapy?”

“I’m a psychologist. I think everyone needs therapy.” It’s something I’ve wanted to suggest for years.

“Some things can’t be fixed with words,” she says.

“It’s not about fixing. It’s about accepting that your marriage has been over for years, and not simply running away from the memories.” I watch her carefully, but there’s nothing to see. Her face is blank, devoid of all emotion. The cracks I thought I saw are gone—filled in like they were never there.

“I’m running out to pick up more packing materials. If you leave before I get back, make sure you take everything you want. I have a donation pickup scheduled for tomorrow.”

She turns and walks out of the room.

I sink slowly onto the bed.

I’ve waited to talk about my father with her for years, and when I finally got the chance, I didn’t listen. I didn’t try to see her perspective.

Instead, I got angry.

It’s hard to blame her for us not talking when I act like that.

Feeling lost, I make quick work of sorting through the rest of the books and quickly load everything into the backseat of my car. As I drive the short distance to my apartment, I call my sister. When she confirms that she’s going to be home all week, I tell her I’m coming for a visit.

Three hours later, I’m sitting on a train, heading to New York.