“Your dad once tried making Thanksgiving dessert without following the recipe. He insisted the black crust was intentional.”
Nathan laughed.
“Tell me something else.”
For the first time in years, I told my son stories about his father without searching for a reason to stop.
The following Saturday, I drove Nathan to Frank’s house. Denise had agreed to let Cole help for the afternoon.
Frank apologized again.
“Then help us make things different,” I told him. “Nathan needs his grandfather, but you must respect that I’m his mother.”
Inside the workshop, Nathan approached Cole.
“I’m sorry I made you keep lying.”
“You kept saying one more weekend,” Cole replied. “I wanted to tell Mom.”
“I know. I won’t put you in that position again.”
Cole nodded.
