Chapter 14 - THE LOWEST POINT
Winning the board vote did not feel like victory.
That night, Caleb had his worst panic attack in months.
A car backfired outside the apartment.
He dropped to the floor.
Covered his ears.
Could not breathe.
I sat six feet away.
Not touching him until he nodded.
Aaron had taught me that.
“Look at me.”
I said softly.
“You are in the apartment.”
He stared at me.
“You are safe.”
His breathing came in sharp bursts.
“Tell me five things you see.”
He struggled.
“The lamp.”
“Good.”
“The couch.”
“Yes.”
“Jonah’s glove.”
I swallowed.
“Good.”
“The window.”
“One more.”
His eyes found me.
“You.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
Afterward, he cried from exhaustion.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“Why am I still like this?”
“Because healing takes time.”
“Everyone is tired of me.”
“No.”
“Grandma is.”
I took a breath.
“Grandma’s inability to understand your pain is not proof that your pain is wrong.”
He stared at me.
“Is Dad going to jail?”
The question startled me.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want him to?”
I answered carefully.
“I want the truth to be handled properly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He was right.
I looked down.
“Part of me is very angry.”
“Me too.”
“That’s okay.”
He whispered.
“I miss him.”
My eyes filled.
“That’s okay too.”
Children can love people who fail them.
Adults can too.
That is what makes leaving hard.
Caleb continued.
“If Dad made the truck crash, am I supposed to hate him?”
“No.”
“You are not supposed to feel anything for anyone.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
“You get to feel what you feel.”
That night, after he slept, I sat alone in the kitchen.
For the first time, I wondered whether I had enough strength for the rest.
Divorce.
Liquidation.
Police investigation.
Therapy.
Company restructuring.
Grief that did not even belong entirely to me.
I called my father.
He was seventy-three now.
He answered at midnight.
“Emma?”
“I think I’m failing.”
He was quiet.
Then.
“At what?”
“Everything.”
“That is too large a category.”
I laughed through tears.
He continued.
“Are you protecting Caleb?”
“Yes.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Then reduce the list.”
I closed my eyes.
Dad had always made hard things sound almost annoyingly simple.
Before hanging up, he said.
“Your husband made choices.”
May you like
“Do not turn his choices into your shame.”
I wrote that sentence down.
