“He’s the adult. He should’ve known better.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?” I asked.
“Because you’d have said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Mom, you won’t even drive down Grandpa’s street.”
I started to respond, but he continued.
“Last month, I asked what Dad was like when he was my age. You told me to take out the trash.”
I remembered that moment.
“You’re always busy when I ask about Dad,” he said quietly.
I sat opposite him.
“You’re staying home next weekend. No sleepovers until we rebuild some trust.”
He nodded.
“And tomorrow, I’m going to your grandfather’s house.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“You’re actually going?”
“Yes. I want to see what you’ve been doing.”
That afternoon, I visited Frank for the first time in three years.
“Laura, I’m sorry,” he said.
“You let two mothers believe their sons were somewhere else for eight weekends. You could’ve stopped this.”
