Mark looked at me then, really looked at me, as if he were deciding whether to trust what I was saying.
“You don’t know what it felt like to wait for her to choose me.”
“I don’t know how to forgive her,” he admitted quietly.
“You don’t have to forgive everything. Just start with a conversation.”
***
Two days later, Mark agreed to meet his Mom at a coffee shop. I didn’t go inside. I stayed in the car with the boys, my hands gripping the steering wheel.
They sat across from each other for a long time before either of them spoke. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the tension. I saw Mark’s stiff posture. I saw her folded hands.
Then I saw something shift.
Two days later, Mark agreed to meet his Mom.
Mark’s shoulders dropped, not completely, but enough.
When he returned to the car, his eyes were red.
“I don’t know what happens next,” he said.
“You talked,” I replied. “That’s something.”
Mark nodded slowly. “She said she would’ve chosen me every time. That she never stopped fighting, even after the court papers were signed.”
“And?”
He swallowed. “I think I needed to hear that.”