Chapter 11 - The Condition
I didn't answer right away. The studio was dead silent except for the soft hum of the radiator in the corner. I thought about the chipped gravy boat, the metal folding chair at Sunday dinner, and the empty brass nail in their hallway wall.
"You can see her, Dad," I said finally.
Dad’s face lit up with a pathetic, desperate spark of hope. "You mean it?"
"Under one condition."
He nodded eagerly, leaning forward. "Anything. Name it, Emmy. Money? A public apology on Facebook? Whatever you want."
"I don't want your money, and I don't want a fake public apology written by your pride," I said, standing up from my desk and walking over to stand right in front of him. "If you want to be a grandfather to Matilda, you and Mom have to tear down the wall."
Dad blinked, completely confused. "Tear down the wall? What wall? The drywall in the hallway?"
"The illusion wall," I clarified sharply. "You are going to go back to Midlothian, call an emergency family meeting with Aunt Teddy, Raquel, and everyone else who participated in the gossip and the shunning, and you are going to tell them the unvarnished truth. You are going to tell them that your daughter is a strong, independent, incredible mother, that your granddaughter is the best thing that ever happened to this family, and that you were miserable, arrogant cowards for turning your backs on us."
Dad’s jaw dropped. "Diane will never agree to that. She’d rather die than admit publicly that she was wrong."
"Then I guess you have your answer," I replied, turning my back on him and walking back to my computer. "The door is right where you came in."
Dad sat frozen in the squeaky wooden chair for nearly three minutes. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. Finally, he stood up, his joints popping, and adjusted his coat. He didn't say goodbye. He just turned, walked out the glass door, and let the chime ring out behind him.
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I didn't hold my breath. I knew my mother’s pride was a fortress built of reinforced concrete and suburban hypocrisy. I figured I would never hear from them again.
I was wrong.
