Sweet Forgiveness Read Online Free PDF Page A

said it yourself, you were the one who severed contact.”
    A snapshot of my sixteenth birthday comes into view. My father sat across from me at Mary Mac’s Restaurant. I can see his grin, wide and guileless, and picture his elbows on the white tablecloth when he leaned in to watch me unwrap my gift—a diamond-and-sapphire pendant much too extravagant for a teen. “Those stones are from Suzanne’s ring,” he said. “I had it reset for you.”
    I stared at the gigantic gems, remembering his big paws rifling through my mom’s jewelry box the day he left, his claim that the ring was rightfully his—and mine.
    â€œThank you, Daddy.”
    â€œAnd there’s one more present.” He grabbed my hand and winked at me. “You don’t have to see her anymore, sweetie.”
    It took a moment before I realized
her
meant my mother.
    â€œYou’re old enough now to decide for yourself. The judge made that clear in the custody agreement.” His face was utterly gleeful, as if this second “present” were the real prize. I stared at him, my mouth agape.
    â€œLike, no more contact? Ever?”
    â€œIt’s your call. Your mother agreed to it. Hell, she’s probably just as happy as you are to be rid of the obligation.”
    I pasted a shaky smile on my face. “Um, okay. I guess so. If that’s what you . . . she wants.”
    I turn away from Dorothy, feeling my lips tugging downward. “I was only sixteen. She should have insisted I see her. She should have fought for me! She was my mother.” My voice breaks, and I have to wait a moment before I’m able to continue. “My dad called to tell her. It was as if she’d been waiting for me to suggest it. When he stepped out of his office, he simply said, ‘It’s over, sweetie. You’re off the hook.’”
    I cover my mouth and try to swallow, glad for once that Dorothy can’t see me. “Two years later, she came for my high school graduation, claiming to be so proud of me. I was eighteen then, and so hurt I could barely speak to her. What did she expect after two years of silence? I haven’t seen her since.”
    â€œHannah, I know your father meant the world to you, but . . .” She pauses, as if searching for the right words. “Is it possible he kept you from your mother?”
    â€œOf course he did. He wanted to protect me. She hurt me over and over again.”
    â€œThat’s your story—
your
truth. You believe it; I understand that. But that doesn’t mean it’s
the
truth.”
    Even though she’s blind, I swear Mrs. Rousseau can see right into my soul. I swipe my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this.” The ottoman scrapes on the concrete as I stand to leave.
    â€œSit down,” she tells me. Her voice is stern, and I obey her.
    â€œAgatha Christie once said that inside each of us is a trapdoor.” She finds my arm and squeezes it, her brittle nails biting my skin. “Beneath that door lie our darkest secrets. We keep that trapdoor firmly latched, desperately trying to fool ourselves, making believe those secrets don’t exist. The lucky ones might even come to believe it. But I fear you, my dear, are not one of the lucky ones.”
    She feels for my hands and takes the stone from me. She places it into the velvet pouch along with the other stone, and pulls tight the drawstring. With her outstretched hands, she searches the air until she finds my tote. Finally settling on it, she tucks the pouch inside.
    â€œYou’ll never find your future until you reconcile your past. Go. Make your peace with your mama.”

    I stand barefoot in my kitchen, where copper pots hang from hooks above my granite island. It is nearly three o’clock Saturday, and Michael will be here at six. I like to time my baking so that when Michael arrives, my condo is filled with the homey scent of