“I appreciate you saying that.”
She looked hopeful.
Then I added:
“But you still can’t live here.”
Her expression hardened immediately.
“What kind of apology would be enough for you?”
“This isn’t a transaction.”
“So you’re never going to forgive me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to understand that forgiveness and access are different things.”
She stared at the camera.
“I am still your mother.”
“Yes.”
“That should mean something.”
“It does.”
I looked around my kitchen.
At the heavy oak dining table I had refinished myself.
At the framed photograph of Grandma Ruth on the counter.
At the keys hanging beside the mudroom door.
At the quiet house.
“It means I wish you well.”
Mom’s face fell.
“But it doesn’t mean you get a key.”
For almost a minute, neither of us spoke.
Then she whispered:
