He was thirteen now, taller than he had been when my father struck me. His schoolwork was spread across the table, and a basketball rested beside his chair.
For months, he had asked very few questions about what happened that afternoon.
I had told him the truth in an age-appropriate way. I explained that his grandfather had hurt me, that the adults involved had made serious mistakes, and that none of it was his fault.
I had also promised him that no one was going to take our home away from us.
That afternoon, he looked across the yard and asked, “Mom, are we ever going to see Grandpa and Grandma again?”
I set down my slice of pizza.
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
“Do you miss them?”
The question caught me off guard.
I watched the wind move through the trees beyond our fence.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “I miss the family I thought we had.”
