The next morning, I read Deacon's message again.
I wanted to remember the words accurately.
He had said he knew he had hurt me.
He had said he should not have done it.
Those words mattered.
I was not going to pretend they meant nothing simply because they had come later than I wanted.
But I was not going to turn them into a promise he had not made, either.
I put the phone down and made breakfast.
The kitchen smelled of toast and tea.
I ate slowly, paying attention to my breathing.
Afterward, I checked the small calendar near the refrigerator and made sure I had the appointments I needed written down.
The ordinary details of my life continued to require attention.
I was grateful for that.
They reminded me that I was more than a mother waiting for her son to understand.
I had a home to care for.
I had my health to protect.
I had choices to make about how I spent my time.
Later that morning, I decided to return to a task I had been putting off.
The cardboard beneath the kitchen table had become thin and bent at the corners.
Every time I moved the table, I had to adjust it.
I pulled the table away from the wall and examined the uneven leg.
The problem was small, but it was not going to fix itself.
I found a more suitable piece of material in a drawer and placed it beneath the leg.
Then I pushed the table back into position.
It stood more steadily.
I pressed down lightly on the edge to test it.
Nothing shifted.
I smiled at the simple result.
There was satisfaction in making a repair that actually worked.
I washed my hands and returned to the counter.
My phone rang just before noon.
I answered.
"Hi, Mom."
Deacon sounded calmer.
We spoke briefly about how each of us had been doing.
Then he said he wanted to ask me something.
I told him to go ahead.
"Do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me?"
I did not answer immediately.
I had asked myself the same question.
I loved my son.
I wanted to release the anger that kept returning whenever I remembered the slap.
I did not want to carry resentment for the rest of my life.
But forgiveness was not something I could produce on command.
It was not a gift I owed him because he had finally admitted what he did.
"I don't know how long it will take," I said. "I am trying to work through what happened."
He sounded disappointed.
"I thought you loved me."
"I do."
"Then I don't understand."
I looked toward the kitchen window.
"Love and forgiveness are not the same as pretending I wasn't hurt."
He said he had apologized.
"You have acknowledged what you did," I replied. "That matters. But trust takes time."
He was quiet.
I could hear the faint hum of something on his end of the call.
"I can't change what happened," he said.
"No, you can't."
"But I can do better."
I wanted to believe that.
I also knew that promises were easiest to make when the other person was still upset.
What mattered would be what he did when he became frustrated again.
"I hope you will," I said.
He asked whether we could meet somewhere soon.
The request made me nervous.
I had been thinking about seeing him, but I had not decided when I would be ready.
"Maybe we can talk about that," I said. "I am not ready to come to your house yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to feel comfortable before I return."
"You think I'll hit you again?"
The question was sharp, and I felt myself tense.
I did not want to accuse him of something I could not predict.
But I would not lie to protect his feelings.
"I know you hit me once," I said. "I need time to understand what that means for me."
He did not speak.
I continued carefully.
"I am not saying you will do it again. I am saying I cannot act as though it never happened."
He sighed.
"I guess I can't argue with that."
"No, you can't."
The words came out more firmly than I expected.
For a moment, I worried that I had been too harsh.
Then I reminded myself that I had answered honestly.
We talked a little longer.
He said he wanted things to return to normal.
I told him I wanted our relationship to become healthier than it had been.
"Normal wasn't always good for us," I said.
He did not answer.
I knew that sentence might be difficult for him to hear.
It was difficult for me to say.
I had spent years protecting the image of our family, even when the reality was more complicated.
I had called it normal when I swallowed my anger.
I had called it normal when I apologized to end an argument.
I had called it normal when I made excuses for behavior that hurt me.
I did not want to return to those habits simply because they were familiar.
Eventually, Deacon said he had to go.
I told him I hoped the rest of his day went well.
When the call ended, I sat quietly at the table.
I was relieved that we had spoken without shouting.
I was also aware of how much work remained.
He had acknowledged the slap.
He had said he was sorry for hurting me in our earlier conversation.
He had expressed a desire to do better.
Those were beginnings.
They were not proof that everything would be different.
I needed to let time reveal what his words meant.
That afternoon, I went outside for a short walk.
I took my phone and keys, checked that I had what I needed, and locked the apartment behind me.
I moved slowly along the sidewalk.
The air was cool enough to make me pull my sweater closer around my shoulders.
At the end of the block, I stopped to rest.
I thought about the question Deacon had asked.
Did I think I could forgive him?
I hoped I could.
I did not want anger to become the only thing I carried from this experience.
But I also did not want forgiveness to become another word for surrender.
I could forgive someone and still choose not to visit their house immediately.
I could forgive someone and still expect them to speak respectfully.
I could forgive someone and still say no when I was not ready.
Those choices did not cancel each other out.
I continued walking until I felt ready to turn back.
When I returned home, I put my keys in their usual place and washed my hands.
Then I sat by the window and rested.
The phone remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
I did not feel the need to make it ring.
I had spoken to my son.
He knew I loved him.
He knew what I needed.
What happened next depended on more than what I said.
That evening, I prepared a simple dinner.
I ate at the kitchen table, which no longer wobbled when I rested my elbows on it.
After washing the dishes, I checked the lock on the front door and turned off the kitchen light.
I thought about the day I had asked Sloan to take her cigarette outside.
It had been a small request.
I had not expected an argument.
I certainly had not expected Deacon to strike me.
For a while, I had wondered whether asking for clean air had somehow caused everything that followed.
I no longer accepted that way of thinking.
My request had not caused his choice.
His anger belonged to him.
His hand belonged to him.
The responsibility for striking me belonged to him.
I could understand his feelings without excusing his behavior.
I could love him without taking responsibility for what he had done.
I could hope for forgiveness without rushing myself toward it.
I turned off the bedside lamp and settled into bed.
My cheek no longer hurt as much.
The memory was still there, but it no longer controlled every moment of the day.
I had begun to make room for ordinary life again.
Tomorrow, I would get up, make tea, and take care of what needed doing.
I would answer Deacon if I wanted to speak.
I would take my time if I did not.
I would not promise that everything was repaired before I knew it was.
For now, that was enough.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: When I Finally Agreed to Speak With My Son in Person, I Made One Decision That Changed the Way I Would Handle Our Relationship
I Thought My Son Would Protect Me, Until I Asked His Wife for One Small Favor in Their Kitchen
Part 16 of 20
