Chapter 9 - WALTER DOESN'T ASK FOR FORGIVENESS
Walter finally agreed to mediation after his lawyer saw the old records Hannah was gathering.
Hannah agreed to one session.
Not reconciliation.
Information.
They sat on opposite sides of a conference room.
Walter looked older without a party around him.
Not frail.
Just sixty nearly.
He had a small pale line near his upper lip.
Caleb's lamp.
Hannah looked at it.
Walter noticed.
“He did that.”
“Yes.”
“People keep forgetting.”
“I haven't.”
Walter leaned back.
“He was out of control.”
“Sometimes.”
That answer disrupted the argument he'd prepared.
He frowned.
Hannah continued.
“He stole Dad's car.”
“Yes.”
“He got high.”
“Yes.”
“He threatened people.”
“Yes.”
“He hit you with a lamp.”
“Yes.”
“And you slapped him first.”
Walter's jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
There.
No denial.
“Why?”
“He called me a drunk parasite.”
“Were you drinking?”
Walter looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Were you living in my parents' house because your marriage had ended?”
“Yes.”
“Was he cruel?”
“Yes.”
“Was he sixteen?”
Walter looked away.
“Yes.”
Hannah sat back.
“Then why have you spent thirteen years telling everybody he attacked you for no reason?”
“I haven't said no reason.”
“You let them say it.”
Walter's voice hardened.
“Because the reason wasn't enough.”
“For what?”
“To justify what he did.”
Hannah nodded slowly.
“That may be true.”
Walter looked surprised.
“Then—”
“But his response being wrong doesn't make your first hit disappear.”
Walter's face changed.
Hannah continued.
“That's what you did with Mia.”
“No.”
“You thought the rule mattered more than her age.”
“The glass vase could've fallen.”
“Move her.”
“She needs to learn.”
“She's two.”
“So when does learning start?”
“Not with a slap across the face.”
Walter exhaled.
For the first time, something underneath his certainty appeared.
Fear, maybe.
He told Hannah something she had not known.
His father hit him.
Often.
Not a tragic monologue.
A fact.
Belts.
Open hands.
One broken nose at fourteen.
Walter left home at seventeen.
Built his adult identity around the belief that he had become less violent than his father.
He never used a belt.
Never punched a child.
Never believed one open-handed slap was abuse.
Hannah listened.
Then:
“You lowered the bar.”
Walter frowned.
“My father was worse.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“To understanding you.”
She looked at him.
“Not to Mia.”
Walter went quiet.
Then Hannah asked:
“Did you ever hit me?”
His expression changed.
That was answer enough.
“When?”
“Once.”
“I remember once.”
“I know.”
“The basement?”
Walter looked confused.
“No.”
Hannah watched him.
Either he was lying very well—
or the basement involved somebody else.
“What happened the night before Caleb left?”
Walter's face changed again.
Not guilt.
Recognition.
“I wasn't there for the start.”
“What start?”
Walter looked toward his attorney.
The attorney shook his head slightly.
Walter stopped.
Hannah stared.
“What happened?”
His attorney answered:
“That event is outside the scope of today's mediation.”
Hannah stood.
“Then we're done.”
Walter did not ask her to stay.
As she reached the door, he spoke.
“I didn't hit you that night.”
Hannah turned.
“Who did?”
May you like
Walter looked at her.
“I thought you remembered.”
