“Sorry, it was a rude question.”
I study the book in my lap. “No, I guess it wasn’t. You were just wondering, and I’ve been open about everything else.”
“But this is more personal. Not like the sanctuary.”
“I guess I don’t. Not really. I don’t like how they don’t talk to my mom and dad. It’s silly, after so many years have passed, that they still stick to making family drama. She’s their daughter. In my opinion, you should never just disown your kids like that, especially not when they haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Have you ever thought about writing them and telling them that?”
“No! I don’t even know them. They’re like strangers. Other than the stuff I hear from my aunts, uncles, and cousins, I wouldn’t know a single thing about them.”
“You could, you know. Send them a letter and explain your feelings. You could reach out and say you’re sorry they’ve taken the stance they have with your parents, but you would like to get to know them. I mean, if you do want to. I just thought it might be too late soon, and you might have regrets about it.”
I can feel my mouth going slack now, which I’m sure is even less attractive than letting it yawn open for days like I was just doing. I just can’t believe someone would come in here—someone who really doesn’t even know me—park his heinie down in my favorite chair, and tell me to write my estranged grandparents.
“Regrets?” I can’t believe I heard that right, but I repeat it just in case. “Um, it’s not really a matter of regret.”
“Maybe they’re sorry, but they don’t know how to tell you they are. People make mistakes, and sometimes they don’t feel like there’s a way back.”
“There’s always a way. It’s called a phone and the words ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Those words are sometimes very hard to say.”
“I don’t really care if they’re hard or not. They had a responsibility to my mom as their daughter to look after her and love her, and they haven’t done any of that.”
“No, but if they had, maybe you wouldn’t be here.”
Okay, what? Whatever he said makes me want to shoot something snarky back, seeing as I’m all full of energy tonight and all, but apparently, I’m too nice, or I’ve gone without company for too long because my insult bank is totally dry. I’ve got nothing. Zero mean game.
“You mean my Great Aunt May leaving my parents the house? She probably would have done that anyway. She loved my mom.”
“But maybe she would have left it to all the kids—your mom’s siblings as well—if she felt everyone was equally looked after, and maybe they would have sold it and split the profits or had to buy one or the other out. You wouldn’t have ended up with it then. You would have been on a totally different life path.”
“Teaching.”
“Maybe.”
I still can’t believe we’re sitting here talking about this. I don’t usually tell anyone this stuff. Some of my closest friends don’t even know about it. I felt like my parents didn’t want me telling anyone these things while I was growing up, so I never mentioned it. Whenever anyone asked about my grandparents, I always talked about Great Aunt May, and I let them assume I didn’t have any. My dad’s parents actually passed away relatively young, both from heart attacks and within two weeks of each other. It was incredibly sad. I don’t remember them much since I was just a baby when it happened.
“Why don’t you write to your mom?” There. I guess I do have something in the mean tank after all. A few fumes left.
Horrible fumes.
Finn’s lips go slack now—his turn. I look up in horror and fixate on them. I’d like to leap off the couch and kiss away the hurt I just put there. But it’s not only on his lips. It’s in his eyes, too—eyes that are way too dark and suddenly way too sad.
“Tit for tat, I guess,” he says, and it sure as heck isn’t happiness I hear in his tone.
“I’m sorry.” I grab my book and shift it to the side of the couch. “That was very uncalled for. I only know a little bit about that, so I shouldn’t be spouting off things I know about you because of your grandfather. He only ever talked about your parents out of concern for them and you. I don’t know much except that your mom…she never really liked being married to your dad and wasn’t really in it to be a mother.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you marry someone you don’t love,” Finn states flatly.
“What do you mean?” I should get off the subject and start talking about Moobelle or Finn’s strange fear of chickens, but I can’t.
“I mean that when my dad met my mom, he fell for her hard and fast. She was, well, she still is, a beautiful woman, and she was an aspiring actress. I don’t even know how my parents met because they’ve never told me. My dad talks about her as little as possible. I think she basically realized she’d fallen straight into a gold mine, and she played her cards well. My dad married her even though I think he knew what was happening by then—that she didn’t love him. She was just in love with his money. He wanted children, so she did agree to have me, but she practically shipped out after that, though not right away. She stuck around long enough to make sure I was okay, but as soon as I was toddling around and my dad could pay someone to nanny me, she started taking extended vacations—her personal time. And my dad just let it happen. Maybe he liked it better when she wasn’t there. When she does come back to the house, she has her own room, and they interact with each other as little as possible. I hardly ever see her. Sometimes she texts me or sends me a photo or whatever. I guess it’s her version of a postcard. She also hardly calls when she’s at home and when she does message me, it’s usually when she’s already gone, so I can’t come around, and she doesn’t have to talk to me in person.”