Chapter 8 - The Correct Wrist
We are still repairing.
Not beautifully.
Richard and I argue.
About the company.
About Catherine.
About why he married Vivian.
About why I stayed gone.
About why he did not tell me my mother had feared Vale.
Some days, forgiveness feels possible.
Some days, it feels like a room I can see but not enter.
That is all right.
Relationships damaged over years do not heal because a judge signs something.
They heal when the people who failed stop demanding the comfort of being forgiven on schedule.
My father no longer does that.
So I keep coming back.
On the first anniversary of the foyer, Richard asked for the gold watch.
It had been released from evidence after the trial.
I brought it to him in its old leather box.
He opened it.
Touched the face.
Then closed the lid.
“Keep it,” he said.
“No.”
He looked up.
“It was your mother’s gift to me.”
“Then wear it.”
His mouth tightened.
“I wore it while failing her.”
“You also noticed when Marcus wore it wrong.”
He smiled faintly.
“Low bar.”
“Sometimes survival starts low.”
He laughed.
Then cried.
Then put the watch on his right wrist.
The correct wrist.
May you like
The scarred wrist.
His wrist.
