The words hung there.
Today I was single. I had my own place, my own life. And next week I’d be the legal guardian of three children.
I still couldn’t believe it. No matter how fast it was coming or how many emails Mom sent with instructions and the names of pediatricians and dentists they had to see and sports I had to sign them up for in the fall, I still couldn’t accept this was real.
We sat there for a moment in silence and I stared at a photo on the mantel, the last one we took with Dad before he died. The one-eighty our lives had taken since then was truly unbelievable. Some alternate universe. A hellscape.
“She won’t be able to chaperone Chelsea’s field trips,” I said, almost absently.
When she got out, she wouldn’t pass the school’s background check. All the memories I had of Mom on the bus, on our way to Como Park or Long Lake—Chelsea wouldn’t have that. She wouldn’t have her dad and she’d lost parts of her mom now too. Alex would be in his twenties when she got out. She was going to miss his graduation. Sarah’s too. Chelsea would be ten, a sixth grader. I’d be thirty-five. Maybe I’d be married. Maybe Alex would. She’d miss the weddings. She’d miss our lives.
And I was angry.
I’d been angry for years. I was angry when Dad died, and then I slid right into being angry at Mom and angry at what was happening to my life and I just… I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t forgive it. I couldn’t understand it and I couldn’t forgive it. And now everyone would pay for it. Alex, Sarah, and Chelsea. Me.
Emma watched me quietly.
“I’m trying really hard to not hold on to it,” I said. “It’s just a lot to accept. It was right after my dad died.” I shook my head. “It was so out of character for her, I don’t get it.”
“Be glad you don’t get it. It means your life has been a lot gentler than hers.”
I stopped and looked at her.
“How old was Chelsea when your dad died?” she asked.
I wrinkled my forehead. “Five months.”
“When did she do this?”
I paused. “That same year.”
“She could have been dealing with postpartum depression, PTSD, complicated grief. Any of those things can make you impulsive and reckless. She might have been self-medicating to deal with it, taking things you didn’t know about. Trauma changes you.”
I set my lips into a line. “So you think she got so depressed she decided to steal two hundred thousand dollars?”
“Justin, people get so depressed they kill themselves.”
I blinked at her.
“You have a lot of ice in Minnesota, right?” she asked.
“Yes…”
“What happens when water gets into a crack and it freezes?”
“It expands,” I said. “Makes the crack bigger.”
“Unhealed trauma is a crack. And all the little hard things that trickle into it that would have rolled off someone else, settle. Then when life gets cold, that crack gets bigger, longer, deeper. It makes new breaks. You don’t know how broken she was or what she was trying to do to fill those cracks. Being broken is not an excuse for bad behavior, you still have to make good choices and do the right thing. But it can be the reason. And sometimes understanding the reason can be what helps you heal.”
“I’ve… I’ve never thought of it that way,” I admitted.
Emma tucked her leg under her. “I think the thing that always got me through the stuff with my mom was knowing that she didn’t want to be the way she was. Nobody wants to be the villain, Justin. If you start there, it’s easier to get how people end up who they are and where they are. My mom put me through a lot. She hurt me. A lot. But she’s full of more cracks than I can ever comprehend.”
“So how do you reconcile that?” I asked. “How do you learn to forgive her?”
She shrugged. “You don’t have to forgive her. You really don’t. You can still love someone that you’ve decided not to speak to anymore. You can still wish them well and hope for the best for them. Choosing a life without them doesn’t mean you stop caring about them. It just means that you can’t allow them to harm you anymore. But if you don’t think your life would be better without them in it, then accept that they have cracks. Try to understand how they got them and help fill them with something that isn’t ice.” She peered at me. “If you can choose anger or empathy, always choose empathy, Justin. It’s so much healthier than anger. For both of you.”
I wanted to respond, but I didn’t even know what to say.
It was weird but it had never occurred to me that maybe Mom had been changed because of what happened with Dad. I mean, she always seemed to keep it together. She didn’t miss work, she didn’t stay in bed for days at a time or lose a bunch of weight or stop brushing her hair.
But maybe she did fall apart. Maybe she just didn’t let us see it. Maybe that was her way of protecting us from more cracks.
I felt a small lump form in my throat. Because when I reframed it this way, I started to wonder if I’d failed her. If I hadn’t felt like someone safe that she could be honest with and lean on. I hadn’t met her where she was.
Emma was right. My life had been gentler than hers.
I studied the woman sitting next to me. Imagine someone who went through what she did, turning out the way she had. Able to give grace to someone who’d let her down so badly. Emma was a better person than I was. And my life had been gentler than hers too.
The front door opened and my sweaty, slightly sunburnt teenage brother came in. I was glad for the interruption.
I leaned to look over the back of the couch. “Hey, how was it?”
Alex dropped a gift shop bag on the floor. “It was epic! Mitch barfed on the Corkscrew, we were making fun of him the whole time.”
“Nice.” I nodded at Emma. “Alex, this is my girlfriend, Emma.”
She smiled. “Hi.”
