Chapter 18 - THE LAST VISIT
I almost refused.
Then I thought about Maisie.
Not because Margaret deserved closure.
Because I did.
The prison visiting room smelled like disinfectant and old coffee.
Margaret entered in a wheelchair.
Time had finally done what none of us could.
It had made her small.
Her hair was white.
One side of her face drooped slightly.
Her hands trembled.
But her eyes were the same.
Sharp.
Evaluating.
Controlling.
“Claire.”
“Margaret.”
“You came.”
“You asked.”
She smiled faintly.
“Still difficult.”
“Still alive.”
Her smile disappeared.
We sat across from each other.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she asked:
“How is Maisie?”
“Happy.”
“Does she remember me?”
“Yes.”
Something almost like satisfaction appeared.
“Good.”
“Not the way you want.”
Her jaw tightened.
“She’ll understand when she’s older.”
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because we tell her the truth.”
Margaret looked away.
Truth.
The one thing she had never learned to control permanently.
“I made mistakes.”
It was the closest thing to an admission I had ever heard.
“You committed crimes.”
“I protected my family.”
“You destroyed it.”
“They were weak.”
“Children are supposed to be weak.”
She looked at me.
“That’s why adults protect them.”
Silence.
Then Margaret said something unexpected.
“My mother hit me.”
I waited.
“My father watched.”
There it was.
Another generation.
Another dining room.
Another silent adult.
Margaret stared at her hands.
“When I cried, he told me crying made her worse.”
I felt sadness.
Not forgiveness.
Sadness.
“You knew what it felt like.”
“Yes.”
“And you did it anyway.”
Her eyes rose.
“I survived.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Her face hardened.
“You think you’re better than me.”
“No.”
I leaned forward.
“I think I made a different choice.”
“You hit Evan.”
“Yes.”
“And you enjoyed it.”
That landed because there was truth in it.
For those seconds, I had wanted him to hurt.
I had admitted that to myself years earlier.
“I did.”
Margaret looked almost triumphant.
“And then?”
“I admitted I was wrong.”
Her triumph vanished.
“I apologized.”
I continued.
“I changed.”
“You think apologies erase things?”
“No.”
“Then what good are they?”
“They’re the beginning.”
Margaret looked toward the window.
Perhaps nobody had ever taught her that.
Perhaps someone had.
Perhaps she simply rejected it.
I would never know.
She finally asked:
“Will you bring Maisie?”
“No.”
“I’m dying.”
“No.”
“I’m her grandmother.”
“No.”
Anger returned to her face.
Even dying, Margaret believed relationships were entitlements.
“She belongs to my family.”
“Maisie belongs to herself.”
Margaret stared at me.
That sentence was incomprehensible to her.
I stood.
“Is that all?”
Her voice changed.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“Did you ever love Evan?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you forgive him?”
I thought about that.
“I did.”
She frowned.
“You divorced him.”
“Forgiveness isn’t the same as returning.”
For once, Margaret had no response.
I walked toward the door.
“Claire.”
I turned.
Tears stood in her eyes.
Real ones, I think.
“I was afraid.”
I looked at her.
“So was everyone else.”
Then I left.
Margaret died eleven days later.
There was no public funeral.
Evan didn’t attend the private burial.
Neither did Tessa.
Rebecca went.
I asked why.
“To make sure she’s really gone.”
Dark.
But understandable.
Afterward, Rebecca stood over Margaret’s grave alone.
She didn’t spit.
Didn’t curse.
Didn’t forgive.
She simply said:
May you like
“You don’t get any more years.”
Then she walked away.
