Chapter 14 - THE BIRTHMARK
Two years after recognition, Noah finally asked about the birthmark.
They were at Grace’s apartment.
Small.
Warm.
Plants on the windowsill.
He pointed.
“That’s how Dad knew?”
Grace looked at the crescent.
“Yes.”
“Did he really remember it for eight years?”
“I guess.”
Noah grinned.
“That’s kind of romantic.”
Grace laughed so hard she nearly spilled tea.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because remembering someone is not the same as treating them right.”
He considered that.
Then asked:
“Did you still love Dad when you saw him?”
Grace thought.
“No.”
“Never?”
“I remembered loving him.”
Different.
Then Noah asked:
“Do you hate Victoria?”
“No.”
“Grandma Margaret?”
Grace paused.
“Sometimes.”
He laughed.
Honesty.
Then:
“Do you hate Dad?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Grace looked at him.
“Hate is work.”
Then:
“I already lost enough years.”
That became her private philosophy.
Not forgiveness.
Resource allocation.
Then Noah asked:
“If you saw me and Victoria fighting again, would you jump in?”
“Yes.”
“Even if she hates you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Grace smiled.
“Because you’re my kid.”
Noah leaned against her.
Not dramatic.
Not first hug.
They had hugged many times now.
May you like
Ordinary closeness.
That was better.
