“It’s a good start, Mom,” I replied gently. “But telling me isn’t enough. You need to tell them.”
And, to my everlasting shock, she did.
The following weekend, Mom drove to my house. She sat Owen and Lucy down at my dining room table and delivered a sincere, unqualified apology.
There were no caveats. There were no defensive prefaces like, “I’m sorry if your feelings were hurt,” or “I’m sorry you misunderstood the situation.” She looked my children in the eyes and told them that she had been wrong to agree with their Aunt Brooke, and that under no circumstances should they ever have been asked to leave their grandmother’s house.
Lucy, possessing the infinite grace of a nine-year-old, forgave her and demanded a hug.
Owen, my fiercely protective twelve-year-old, took significantly longer to warm back up. He kept his distance for several weeks.
I let him.
