CHAPTER 14
Lily’s first art show happened by accident.
Her kindergarten teacher asked every student to make a picture of what “home” meant.
Most children drew houses.
Lily drew our yellow sofa.
There were crumbs on it.
Airport was upside down.
I was holding a pizza.
She was wearing bee socks.
Above us, in huge crooked letters, she wrote:
HOME IS WHERE I DON’T HAVE TO BE PERFECT.
Her teacher cried.
Then I cried.
Then Nora accused everyone of becoming unbearable.
The school asked permission to display the drawing at a family night.
We said yes.
A parent who worked with a local child-advocacy center saw it and asked if Lily wanted to contribute artwork to their annual fundraiser.
I almost said no automatically.
Publicity had become something I distrusted.
So I asked Lily.
“Do you want people to see your pictures?”
“Do they have to?”
“No.”
“Can they?”
“Yes.”
“Will my name be there?”
“Only if you want.”
“Can it say Lily W.?”
“Yes.”
She thought.
“Can Airport’s name be there too?”
“Obviously.”
So Lily contributed three drawings.
One was the yellow sofa.
One was Amelia as an angel.
The last was a rabbit standing beside a tiny child under an enormous umbrella.
The caption said:
SAFE MEANS SOMEONE HOLDS THE UMBRELLA.
At the fundraiser, the drawing sold for five thousand dollars.
I was furious.
“Five thousand?”
Daniel laughed.
“You’re mad someone donated five grand?”
“I offered ten.”
“You were banned from bidding on your own kid’s art.”
“Unconstitutional.”
Lily tugged my sleeve.
“Daddy.”
“What?”
“The lady bought it.”
“I know.”
“She said it goes in her office.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Can I make you another?”
I crouched.
“I’d like that.”
She whispered, “For free.”
“Finally, a reasonable artist.”
Later that evening, Rosa approached us.
She had returned to work part-time months earlier.
Not because I asked.
Because Lily did.
Rosa initially refused.
She said the house held too many bad memories.
Lily told her the yellow sofa fixed most of them.
Apparently that argument worked.
Rosa hugged Lily.
“I saw your pictures.”
“Airport helped.”
“Of course.”
Then Rosa turned to me.
Her eyes grew serious.
“There is something I’ve wanted to say.”
“What?”
“I forgive you.”
I stared at her.
“For what?”
“For not hearing me.”
My throat tightened.
“That isn’t yours to forgive.”
“Yes, it is.”
She touched my arm.
“And you should forgive yourself eventually too.”
I looked away.
That remained harder.
Claire had been responsible for what she did.
Richard had been responsible for helping create opportunities and concealment.
Mark had been responsible for betraying trust.
But I was responsible for the kind of father I had been before I opened that living-room door.
I did not want forgiveness to erase responsibility.
Dr. Patel helped me understand it didn’t have to.
“You can regret without living permanently inside regret,” she told me once.
I tried.
Some days I succeeded.
Other days I stood outside Lily’s room after she fell asleep and wondered how many nights she had cried while I sat in hotel bars answering emails.
On those nights, I reminded myself of something Nora said.
Guilt points backward.
Love has to move.
So I moved.
I reduced my board obligations again.
I coached exactly three disastrous soccer practices before Lily decided she hated soccer.
We took swimming lessons together because I discovered, embarrassingly, that she could float better than I could.
We visited Amelia’s grave every month.
Sometimes Lily brought flowers.
Sometimes drawings.
Once she brought half a cookie.
“She liked chocolate,” Lily explained.
“She did.”
“Will ants eat it?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Mommy won’t mind?”
“No.”
We sat on the grass.
Lily leaned against me.
“Do you miss her?”
“Every day.”
“Are you sad?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can you be sad and happy?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I think I am.”
I looked at her.
“About what?”
“Mommy.”
She picked at the grass.
“I’m sad she’s dead.”
My chest tightened.
“But I’m happy I remember her voice a little.”
I put my arm around her.
“That makes sense.”
“And I’m happy I have you.”
I kissed her hair.
“I’m happy I have you too.”
She looked at me.
“And Airport.”
“Obviously.”
“And Aunt Nora.”
“Yes.”
“And the yellow couch.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed.
Then she became serious again.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we a broken family?”
I felt the question settle between us.
“No.”
“Claire said families need a mommy and daddy.”
“Claire was wrong about many things.”
“What are we?”
I looked toward Amelia’s headstone.
Then at my daughter.
“We’re us.”
Lily thought about that.
Then smiled.
“I like us.”
I pulled her closer.
“So do I.”
As the sun lowered behind the cemetery trees, Lily placed her half-cookie beside Amelia’s flowers.
Then she took my hand.
May you like
She didn’t ask if I was coming.
She simply knew.
