Chapter 9 - THE KITCHEN FLOOR
I avoided the spot where I collapsed for months.
That sounds ridiculous because the kitchen was tiny.
You cannot dramatically avoid eight square feet of tile while also getting cereal.
But I did.
I stepped around it.
Never stood there too long.
If someone dropped a glass, my heart jumped.
Mom noticed.
One Saturday, I came downstairs and found her replacing the broken kitchen light.
Daniel was beside her holding the ladder.
“What happened?”
“The fixture flickers.”
“It’s always flickered.”
Mom climbed down.
“I know.”
Then she looked at the floor.
“I hate this room now.”
I understood.
She continued.
“I keep seeing you there.”
“So do I.”
She sat at the table.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you hate me?”
The question sounded much younger than forty-seven.
I thought about it seriously.
“No.”
She nodded, relieved.
“But I didn’t trust you for a while.”
Her relief disappeared.
“I know.”
“And I’m still angry sometimes.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you apologizing every day.”
She looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because then I have to keep telling you it’s okay.”
That landed.
She nodded slowly.
“So what do you want?”
“Just do better.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
That was forgiveness for us.
Not one grand speech.
Not forgetting.
Not pretending I had not been hurt.
Just a person changing enough that the apology stopped needing to be repeated.
We replaced the flickering light together.
Then Mom took the pile of dishes from the sink and started washing them.
I stood beside her.
She looked at me.
“You don’t have to help.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
I picked up a towel anyway.
May you like
This time, washing dishes was just washing dishes.
Nothing more.
