He asked.
It wasn’t romantic reconciliation.
It was something simpler and, in some ways, harder.
Accountability.
Grandpa had some healing to do too.
One evening, I brought Mom’s letters to him.
We read them together at his kitchen table.
When Grandpa reached the note where Mom had written that Caleb wasn’t like his father, he removed his glasses and wiped his eyes.
“I thought I was protecting you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I loved your mother so much. After she died, all I wanted was to keep anything that had hurt her away from you.”
He stared at the letters.
“But I suppose somewhere along the way, protecting you turned into deciding for you.”
I reached across the table and took his hand.
“You were scared.”
“So was Caleb.”
“Yes.”
Grandpa looked toward the nursery.
“And neither of us gave you much credit for being capable of handling the truth.”
