When I saw the familiar face my granddaughter had drawn wonderfully, the crayon picture trembled in my hands. My son and his wife’s subterranean secret was discovered by one child’s innocent artwork after years of polite excuses and diverted invites.
My life has been full of ups and downs, like others my age. I’ve overcome obstacles, enjoyed successes, and found pleasure in simple moments.
Raising my kid Peter was the highlight of my life.
He became a great guy with a nice family. His twelve-year-old wife Betty and daughter Mia are his passion.
Women want the cutest eight-year-old grandchild, Mia.
A shift occurred three years ago. Peter often invited me home for Sunday meals, weekday visits, and afternoon teas when Betty baked lemon cookies. Gathering in their pleasant living room, we discussed life. No celebration required.
After that, invites ceased.
Not like we stopped meeting.
They visited my little downtown flat. We still celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas at my sister’s and brother’s houses. They attended all events, including family reunions and birthdays.
But their home? It became inexplicably off-limits.
Peter said, “The guest room is being renovated.”
“We’re having plumbing issues,” Betty said later.
I hardly questioned it. Busyness occurs. Life occurs. Maybe they wanted privacy.
Until last Tuesday, when I surprised them.
I saw a magnificent antique music box at a flea sale that Betty had loved months before. I rode the bus across town and arrived at their home with a present without hesitation.
I found the visit weird. Peter smiled artificially as he opened the door.
“Mom!” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” I murmured, entering before he objected. “I found something for Betty.”
“That’s… that’s great.” Nervously, he looked toward the kitchen. “Let me just tell her you’re here.”
Their household was tight.
Betty entered from the kitchen with a forced grin, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Martha! What a nice surprise!” she hugged me too firmly.
They had me remain for supper despite my surprise visit. Mia merrily spoke about school at the table while Peter and Betty exchanged stares I couldn’t decipher.
Betty grimaced when her wine glass was emptied during the main meal.
“We need another bottle,” she said. “I’ll grab one from the—”
“I can get it,” I said, rising. You store them where? The basement?”
Betty almost tipped over her chair standing up.
Shouting, “Oh, no need!” “I’ll get it!”
She went downstairs as Peter sat stiffly next me, suddenly engaged in chopping his chicken into similar pieces.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” he murmured, ignoring me. “Everything’s fine.”
Something was odd. I felt it in my bones.
A few days later, Peter and Betty requested me to babysit Mia for the afternoon due to a business situation.
Naturally, I enjoyed seeing my grandchild.
I liked Mia’s sketching skills as we sat at their kitchen table with colored pencils and papers.
“Can I see some of your other drawings, sweetheart?” I requested.
She ran to her room and returned with a folder full of paintings, nodding eagerly.
One painting stood out among crayon landscapes and stick-figure family portraits.
It depicted their home with a stick figure underneath it, alone. The gray-haired guy stood alone in their basement.
My heart beat my ribs.
“Sweetheart, who is this?” I asked, pointing to the lone individual.
Just “That’s Grandpa Jack,” she said. “He lives downstairs.”
Grandpa Jack? Numb fingers.
My ex-husband was Jack.
Jack, who left us 20 years ago.
Jack, whom I’d forgotten.
Does Grandpa Jack live here? In this house?” I asked.
Mia nods. “Daddy says it’s a secret from you because it would make you sad.”
My thoughts raced as I carefully placed the sketch. Here was Jack? Living in my son’s basement?
The years of excuses and redirections made perfect, dreadful sense.
When Peter and Betty got home, I sent Mia upstairs to play. I went directly to the basement door in the hallway while Peter and Betty changed in their bedroom.
Locked.
Knocked hard. “I know you’re in there.”
I heard shuffling footsteps after a lengthy silence. The door slowly creaked open.
There he stood. Jack.
He left us 20 years ago. He cheated, left, and never returned.
An elderly man. Weaker. Still him.
His voice cracked as he spoke two things I never imagined again.
“I’m sorry.”
Thousands of emotions overwhelmed me as I glanced at him.
“Martha, please,” Jack replied, expanding the door. Come in. Let me explain.”
My feet dragged me inside his house, even though I wanted to turn and go. The basement was now a compact apartment with a bed, sofa, and kitchenette.
I said, “You’ve got five minutes,” with a colder tone.
Jack lounging on an armchair seemed smaller than I recalled.
“I lost everything,” he said. About seven years ago. My work, money, and life I desired more than what we had.”
“Spare me the pity party,” I said. “Why are you here? My son has been concealing you from me how long?”
Jack stared down at his hands. “Three years. When I lost everything, I understood my folly. how I’d lost everything important.”
“You crawled back? Twenty years later?”
“Not to you,” he said. I knew I’d hurt you too much. I went to Peter. I must see him. I wanted to apologize and make apologies before…”
I asked “Before what?”
“Before it was too late.” He vaguely pointed to a counter pill organizer. “Heart’s not what it used to be.”
I denied compassion. “So you just showed up on his doorstep?”
“He almost slammed the door in my face,” Jack replied sorrowful smiling. Martha, you raised a nice guy. Motherly loyalty.”
“Then how did we get here?” I demanded.
Jack shuffled uneasily. “I begged him for five minutes. Just five minutes to apologize for being away for years.”
“And he gave it to you?”
“He gave me five minutes,” Jack said. “And at the end, he told me he never wanted to see me again.”
A spark of pride came over me. Sounds like my Peter.
“But I kept coming back,” Jack said. “I visited monthly. Just to chat on the porch. I never requested entry.”
“What changed?” Despite me, I asked.
Just “Time,” Jack said. Time and effort. Martha, Peter harmed. He wounded from childhood. He had questions only I could answer.”
“Like why you abandoned your family?” Said harshly.
Jack winced. “Yes. There were no good responses. Truth: I was selfish, stupid, and afraid of responsibilities. That I persuaded myself you’d be better off without me.”
I scoffed. “We were.”
“I know,” he muttered. However, Peter had always wanted a father. The one he hardly remembered from childhood, not the one who departed. He learned to ride a bike and fish.”
Though I’d tried to forget them, I recalled those pleasant days.
Jack said, “One day, he let me come inside.” Coffee alone. Dinner a couple months later. We spoke more gradually. He was careful, Martha. His forgiveness was difficult.”
“Then how did you end up living here?” I demanded.
Big sigh from Jack. A year ago, my apartment building caught fire. I lost everything. Again.”
“And Peter took you in,” I said, fitting everything together.
He nodded. I had nowhere else to go. Betty and he finished the basement. Intended to be transitory.”
“But it wasn’t,” I replied.
“No,” he confessed. “And the longer I stayed, the harder it became for them to tell you.”
“They felt guilty,” Jack whispered. Like they betrayed you. They didn’t want to harm.”
I was shaking then. My kid lived a double life, I realized. He hid this huge secret from me for years.
“So, you’ve all been lying to me,” I add. “For years.”
“We were guarding you,” Jack replied.
“Protect me?” Bitter laughter. “Oh, please!”
“It’s not what it looks like, Mar—”
“Save it,” I interrupted. “I need to talk to my son.”
Peter and Betty stood in the entrance, stunned, as I came from the basement.
“Mom…” Peter started, pale. “I can explain.”
“Go ahead.”
Mediation was attempted by his wife. “Please comprehend. We never meant to harm you. Just—”
Cut her off. “You lied to me. For years.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Peter said. I first refused to forgive him. He was different. Was sorry.”
I scoffed. “Sorry? All it takes? Do you know what he did to me? To us?”
“I was there too, Mom,” Peter murmured, gaining strength. “I lived through it too.”
“How could you allow him back in? Following his treatment of us?”
Peter grew stern. Do you know what it was like to grow up fatherless? He was my dad, even though I hated him my entire life.”
I realized I’d never questioned Peter about his father leaving after his statements. I never gave him time to mourn because I was so intent on moving on and becoming his parents.
“You should have told me,” I looked aside.
“How?” Peter asks. “When? There was no appropriate moment. It started with periodic visits. When the fire started, what should I do? Reject him?”
“Yes!” I said. “Or at least be honest with me!”
“I was afraid,” Peter said. “Afraid you’d make me choose.”
Jack came at the door.
“You get to rejoin this family? Nothing happened?” I questioned Jack.
Swallowed hard. Don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t expect friendliness. I simply wanted to fix things here.”
Shaking my head. “There’s no ‘making things right.’ There’s only living with what you’ve done.”
“Mom,” Peter said, “he’s dying.”
“What?”
“His heart,” Peter said. “The doctors give him maybe a year.”
I glanced at Jack again and recalled his quick reference about his heart below. Somehow, knowing his health didn’t lighten my heart.
“That doesn’t erase the past,” I add.
“No,” Jack said. It doesn’. Martha, I don’t deserve pardon. I know.”
Peter looked tearful. Mom, I adore you. I won’t apologize for seeing my father. Especially now.”
Inhaled deeply. “And I’m not going to pretend this doesn’t hurt.”
I grabbed my luggage and headed for the main entrance.
“Mom? You heading where?” Peter asks.
“Home,” I replied. “I need some time.”
“But Mom, I—”
I glanced at Peter and Betty, “At least now I know why I was never invited here.” My attention then turned to Jack. “I need time to think. I’ll return when I’m well.”
I left my son’s home without knowing what would happen.
2 days after seeing him, I still have difficulties absorbing things. Should I let Jack back in? Should I forgive him for leaving us? What would you do in my situation?