I added one.
A family photograph before everything.
My mother maybe fifty.
Dad beside.
Michael and me teenagers.
She was laughing.
I did not want final room built only from safe dead.
She existed.
I loved.
History included.
A nurse asked who.
“My mother.”
“She beautiful.”
“Yes.”
No explanation.
Good.
At ninety-three, memory still mostly good.
Body less.
I dictated parts of this because hands tired.
Lily insisted I was writing memoir.
“No.”
“You have hundreds pages.”
“That is memoir.”
“It is family record.”
“That’s memoir with denial.”
She inherited my arguments.
I did not publish.
Maybe family would.
Maybe not.
The story already existed publicly in fragments.
My version could remain theirs.
One afternoon Ava visited with daughter, Emma, age nine.
Emma stared at Michael’s note.
“What does pink lamp mean?”
“Long story.”
She groaned.
“Everybody says long story.”
“Family curse.”
She sat.
“Mom says there was secret room.”
“Yes.”
“Was it scary?”
“Yes.”
“Is house still there?”
“Yes.”
“Can we visit?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Other people live.”
“Do they know?”
“Probably not.”
Emma thought.
“Could there still be secret rooms?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I lived there.”
“You didn’t know first one.”
That child destroyed me.
I laughed until coughing.
Ava looked smug.
“She gets it from us.”
Unfortunately.
Emma asked:
“Why did Grandma Lily feed him?”
“Because he was hungry.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
She considered.
“Good.”
Then went to vending machine.
Maybe the simplest part survives best.
At ninety-four, I had one final conversation with Lily about Vanessa.
We sat by window.
She was sixty-three.
Gray in hair.
Still looked like child when tired.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever fully forgive Mom?”
I thought.
“What is fully?”
“You know.”
“No.”
She waited.
“I stopped needing the question.”
“What does that mean?”
“I trusted her again.”
“I loved.”
“I chose to stay.”
“I stopped punishing.”
“Was that forgiveness?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you forget?”
“No.”
“Did you excuse?”
“No.”
“Then maybe yes.”
I smiled.
“You’ve become therapist.”
“God forbid.”
She looked at hands.
“I think I’m still mad.”