Chapter 23 - JENNA’S DINNER
Jenna invited Lucy and me to Christmas four years after the slippers.
I hesitated.
Lucy wanted to go.
“Can we bring our own socks?”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
Jenna had moved into a smaller house after leaving family consulting.
She worked for an event company with no Bennett ownership.
Her finances were less impressive.
Her life seemed calmer.
At the front door, she said:
“No surprise wearable gifts.”
Lucy answered:
“That is weirdly specific.”
“Family policy.”
Mark came later.
Our divorce had become ordinary enough that we could share one meal occasionally without pretending reconciliation.
Walter remained incarcerated.
No photograph of him sat on the table.
Jenna did not hide him either.
His framed family picture remained on a hallway shelf.
Lucy saw it.
She walked past.
During gifts, Jenna handed Lucy an envelope.
“Open if you want.”
Inside was a bookstore gift card.
“No chemicals?” Lucy asked.
Jenna froze.
Lucy smiled.
It was the first joke she had made about the slippers.
Nobody told her humor meant healing was complete.
At breakfast the next morning, a pan burned on the stove.
Smoke filled the kitchen.
The detector screamed.
Lucy dropped a plate and began shaking.
Mark reached toward her.
Then stopped.
“Can I touch you?”
She nodded.
He placed one hand on her shoulder.
Jenna opened windows.
I turned off the burner.
Nobody called her sensitive.
Nobody said she remembered danger strangely.
The alarm stopped.
Lucy sat.
Then began crying.
“I hate Christmas sometimes.”
Mark knelt several feet away.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right.”
The correction was small.
Years earlier he would have argued his intention.
Now he allowed her experience to remain hers.
That evening Lucy asked:
“Do you think Grandpa changed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you care if he did?”
“Yes.”
“Would that mean you forgive him?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“You really hate that question.”
“I do.”
Forgiveness had become society’s favorite attempt to turn another person’s work into my decision.
May you like
Walter’s change belonged to him.
My boundary belonged to me.
