Mia nodded.
I felt something in my chest go completely still.
« When? »
« About four months ago. »
I looked from one daughter to the other.
« Four months? »
Ava said quickly, « We didn’t answer at first. »
« She messaged both of you?
« Instagram first, » Mia said. « Then she emailed me. »
« What did she say? »
« That she wanted to talk. »
I couldn’t believe how calm my voice sounded.
« And you did? »
Ava looked down. « Eventually. »
Mia said, « At first, we ignored her. »
« Then what changed? »
They exchanged a look.
Ava answered. « She said she was sick. »
« How sick? »
Mia’s eyes filled. « She has cancer. »
I said nothing.
« It’s advanced, » she continued. « She’s been in and out of the hospital. »
I looked down at my hands.
I had imagined Claire in a thousand ways over the years.
Happy somewhere.
Remarried. Regretful. Indifferent.
I had never imagined her dying.
Ava said, « Dad? »
« How long have you been talking to her? »
« About three months. »
« How have you been talking? »
« Via messages. Phone calls. »
I stood and walked a few steps away from the table before turning back.
I asked, « Have you seen her? »
Mia nodded. « Twice. »
« You visited her? »
« At the hospital. »
« Without telling me? »
Ava said, « We’re 18. »
I turned toward her. « I know how old you are. »
She flinched. I hated that.
So I lowered my voice.
« I’m not angry that you saw her. »
Neither of them looked convinced. « I’m not. »
Mia wiped at her eyes.
« Then why do you look angry? »
« Because you thought you had to hide it from me. »
I sat again.
« Did you think I’d stop you? »
Ava said, « We didn’t know. »
« Then why didn’t you tell me? »
« We wanted to figure out how we felt first, » Mia said.
« And you couldn’t do that with me knowing? »
Ava shook her head. « It wasn’t like that. »
« Then what was it like? »
She hesitated. « We thought you’d feel betrayed. »
Mia added, « We know what she did to you. »
« What she did to all of us. »
« Yes. »
Ava’s voice cracked.
« And we thought maybe if we talked to her, you’d think we were choosing her. »
I had spent 12 years trying to make sure they never felt abandoned again.
I’d worried about whether I was doing enough.
Whether I was too protective.
Whether I worked too much.
Whether I pushed them too hard toward independence.
I’d never considered that they might believe they owed me loyalty against their own mother.
I said, « Listen to me. You don’t need my permission to know her. »
Ava started crying. She covered her face.
Mia reached for her.
Ava looked at me. « We haven’t forgiven her. »
« You don’t have to. »
« She keeps apologizing. »
« You don’t have to forgive her because she’s sick either. »
Mia whispered, « She wants to see you. »
« I can’t, » I said immediately.
Neither argued.
Then Mia said, « She asked once. We told her you probably wouldn’t. »
« Good, because I don’t. »
There was a long silence.
Then Ava said, « She’s in the hospital again. They don’t know if she’ll go home this time. »
Their sad expressions softened my tough stance.
If I were going to see her, I would do it for my daughters.
Otherwise, I owed her nothing.
Not forgiveness. Not love.
« When are you going? »
« Tomorrow. »
I looked at their faces.
They were scared.
Not of me anymore.
Of losing someone they’d barely had time to know.
I sighed. « I’ll drive you. »
Mia frowned. « You don’t have to. »
« I know. »
The next afternoon, I drove them to the hospital.
For most of the trip, we didn’t talk.
Ava played with the edge of her sleeve.
Mia stared out the window.
When we got there, I told myself I’d wait downstairs.
Then Ava said, « Dad, will you come up? »
I almost said no.
Instead, I said, « For a few minutes. »
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