I’d thought she was handling the divorce beautifully.
She hadn’t been handling it.
Advertisement
She’d been handling us.
“Every time one of you got angry,” Emma said, “somebody threatened not to come.”
Nobody spoke.
“Dad wouldn’t come if Mom’s family was there. Mom didn’t want to come if Dad brought somebody. Sophie wouldn’t come if Dad had disappointed her again.”
She looked at her sister.
Then at me.
Then at Tom.
Advertisement
“Do you know what happens when everyone you love keeps threatening to leave?”
Her voice dropped.
“You get very good at giving them reasons to stay.”
Sophie started crying.
So did I.
Emma looked at me.
“And you always tell me how mature I am.”
That hurt more than anything else she’d said.
Because I had.
For eight years.
Emma’s so mature.
Advertisement
Emma understands.
Emma never makes things difficult.
I’d been praising my daughter for making our divorce easier on me.
I just hadn’t called it that.
“I thought you were,” I whispered.
Emma’s eyes filled.
“I was 17, Mom.”
Advertisement
Just four words.
Seventeen.
A child learning how to keep adults in the same room.
Sophie wiped her face.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Emma looked exhausted.
“Because I wanted all of you there.”
Then she looked at Tom.
“And I wanted my father at my wedding.”
That silenced everyone.
Sophie had spent years being angry enough at Tom for both sisters.
Advertisement
Emma hadn’t.
Or maybe she had.
But underneath the anger was still a daughter who wanted her father to show up.
“You can hate him because you stopped needing him,” Emma said quietly to Sophie.
She swallowed.
“I didn’t.”
Sophie flinched.
Advertisement
Then she stepped toward her sister.
“I’m sorry.”
Emma nodded.
“No, really.”
Sophie wiped her cheek.
“I thought I was standing up for you.”
