“Why she hated me.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she say?”
“She said she didn't hate me.”
I waited.
“And?”
“She said I reminded her that she could never replace Mom.”
“That every time I mentioned Mom, she felt like she was losing.”
I looked at her.
“How did that feel?”
“Stupid.”
I almost laughed.
She continued:
“Not me.”
“Her.”
“I was a kid.”
“She was competing with a dead person and a kid.”
“Yes.”
“She said that too.”
Nia looked toward window.
“I thought hearing her reason would make it make sense.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She looked at me.
“Good?”
“Some reasons explain behavior without making behavior reasonable.”
She smiled.
“Therapy.”
“Still.”
She eventually saw Renee once or twice a year.
Never called her Mom.
Never stayed overnight.
Never allowed private authority.
Renee accepted those limits.
That, more than apology, convinced me she had changed.
People change when they can hear a boundary without punishing the person who made it.
Malik and Zoe remained part of Nia’s life.
By high school, they referred to one another as siblings without qualifiers.
At graduation, all three stood for photographs.
Renee attended but sat separately.
I saw her across auditorium.
We nodded.
No drama.
Nia graduated with honors and a basketball scholarship to a state university.
The night before she left, she stood in kitchen eating cereal from a mixing bowl because all regular bowls were packed.
“You nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Fine.”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
She looked around.
“I used to hate this kitchen.”
I said nothing.
“I thought the house remembered stuff.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
She looked toward hardwood floor.
“We replaced it anyway.”
“That was water damage.”
“I know.”
Then:
“Dad?”
“Yes?”