The Family Confrontation
A week later, I invited Emily and Mark Jr. for dinner. Halfway through, there was a knock. Mark Sr. stood there, hat in hand. I led him in. Three nearly matching faces around one table: my past, my daughter’s present, and the mess between.
“This is me not talking,” I said. “You three need a conversation. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I listened to muffled voices—shock, anger, grief. When I returned, Emily stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself. “You knew,” she said to me, not accusing, just tired.
“I knew my part,” I said. “Not all of theirs.”
She asked, “Are you going to tell me what to do?”
I shook my head. “No. I tried that. I almost lost you. I’m your mom. I’m here.”
