“More than anything,” she said immediately. “Even if she doesn’t deserve it.”
“Then don’t bring her up again,” he said. “If you want to see her, talk to us first. No secrets. No back doors. No guilt.”
She nodded, clutching a handkerchief.
“I agree,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you tell me. But… please, don’t separate me from her.”
The room fell silent.
I thought of my younger self.
I looked at my husband’s face. The anger was still there, but so was the boy who had wanted his mother to show up for him.
He exhaled.
“We’ll try,” he said. “That’s all I can promise for now.”
He looked at me.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I thought of my younger self, crying in the bathroom over something I’d said. Then I looked at Jordan, sitting on the edge of her chair, hope written on her face.
Let’s set clear rules.
“I think our daughter deserves a grandmother.”
Jordan made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.
She lunged at him. Then at her grandmother. Then at me.
Two weeks have passed.
Jordan is still grounded.
Let’s set clear rules. No visits without our knowledge. No secrets. If Grandma wants to spend time with Jordan, she texts us first.
But my daughter can finally say, “I’m going to Grandma’s house.”
Since then, we’ve had two short visits. One at our house. One at hers.
There have been excuses. Awkward silences. A few stories. A few tears.
But my daughter can finally say, “I’m going to Grandma’s house,” without lying about where she’ll sleep that night.
