Chapter 12 - The Woman Who Knocked on the Door
The new treatment was brutal.
Sophie's hair began falling out nine days later.
She pretended not to care.
I pretended to believe her.
Then one morning, I found her standing over the bathroom sink with a fistful of dark hair in her hand.
She didn't cry.
She looked angry.
“Give me the clippers.”
“What?”
“The clippers.”
“You don't have to.”
“Ethan.”
I found them.
She sat on a kitchen chair in her apartment.
I stood behind her.
My hand shook so badly she noticed.
“You've held a rifle under fire.”
“This is different.”
“Obviously.”
I turned on the clippers.
Then someone knocked.
Sophie frowned.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
I opened the door.
A woman stood outside.
Mid-sixties.
Gray coat.
Dark eyes.
Sophie's mother.
Margaret Hale.
I hadn't seen her since our divorce.
She looked at me once.
Then slapped me.
Hard.
I didn't move.
Sophie stood.
“Mom!”
Margaret pushed past me.
“You.”
She pointed at Sophie.
“Sit down.”
Sophie blinked.
“What?”
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
Margaret started crying.
Then Sophie did too.
They hugged.
I stepped toward the hallway.
Margaret's voice stopped me.
“Don't leave.”
I turned.
She looked at me with open dislike.
“I didn't say I forgive you.”
“I didn't ask.”
“Good.”
She took off her coat.
“But apparently she still wants you here.”
Sophie looked embarrassed.
“Mom.”
Margaret ignored her.
For the next three days, that woman watched me like a military investigator.
She questioned every medication.
Every meal.
Every appointment.
Every time Sophie coughed.
On the third night, she found me washing dishes.
“You know she called me after you asked for the divorce.”
I stopped.
“She said she couldn't breathe in that house.”
I stared into the sink.
Margaret continued.
“I told her to leave you.”
I nodded.
“She refused.”
That surprised me.
“She said you were lost.”
My throat tightened.
“She said lost wasn't the same as cruel.”
I turned.
Margaret's eyes were wet.
“I disagreed.”
“I don't blame you.”
“She defended you until the day those papers were signed.”
I looked toward the bedroom.
Sophie was sleeping.
Margaret lowered her voice.
“If she survives this, don't confuse gratitude with reconciliation.”
“I won't.”
“If she forgives you, don't assume that means she wants you back.”
“I won't.”
“And if she does want you back?”
I waited.
Margaret stepped closer.
“Earn it.”
I nodded.
“I intend to.”
She studied me.
Then pointed toward the counter.
May you like
“You missed a plate.”
It was the closest thing to approval I was going to get.
