—”You’re going to regret this,” he muttered.
I took a breath. I looked at the suitcases. I looked at the hanging sign. I looked at my son. —”I regret waiting so long. That I do.”
Robert stood still. Then he walked toward his suitcases. He didn’t pick them up right away. It was as if he was still waiting for me to run over, touch his arm, tell him no, tell him I just snapped, that Matthew could spend a few days with my mom and then everything would go back to normal.
But I didn’t move. Ellie opened the door. The cool night air rushed in. Robert grabbed two suitcases. They were heavy. Of course they were heavy. Inside were his suits, his shoes, his expensive colognes. But they also carried the weight of every slight.
He walked out onto the porch. The driver wasn’t there. I had canceled the service that morning.
Robert turned around. —”Where’s my SUV?” —”In the garage. The keys are in the small envelope. The gate remote, too. After today, the automatic access won’t work. I changed the system.”
His face fell. —”That too?” —”That too.”
Matthew walked up to the bronze sign. He took it down carefully. For a second I thought he was going to throw it. But he didn’t. He handed it to Robert.
—”You forgot your last name.”
Robert took it. The plaque was heavy. It bent his wrist down a little. I will never forget that image. A seventy-six-year-old man carrying his last name as if he suddenly didn’t know where to put it.
—”You’re going to need me,” he said, more out of habit than conviction. —”Maybe,” I replied. “But my son will never again need me to betray him just to keep a man around.”
Robert looked at Matthew. He wanted to say something. Maybe an apology. Maybe one last cruelty. In the end, he said nothing.
He walked toward the garage, dragging the suitcases over the stone driveway. Every wheel sounded like a final period. When the engine started, Matthew covered his ears. I hugged him from behind. —”He’s leaving,” I told him. —”What if he comes back mad?”
My sister locked the front door. My mom touched the wooden mezuzah my dad had placed on the doorframe, even though he wasn’t really religious. He used to say houses needed charms, even invented ones. —”This house has women,” she said. “And it has memory. Those who don’t respect it don’t come in.”
The SUV pulled out. The gate closed. And for the first time in years, the silence didn’t scare me. It was a different kind of silence. It wasn’t the silence of walking on eggshells. It wasn’t the silence of stifled laughter. It wasn’t the silence of asking for permission. It was the silence after lifting a boulder off your chest.
Matthew let go of me and ran to the center of the living room. He stood there, looking around. —”Can I turn on the TV?”
The question broke me. Not because of the TV. Because of the permission.
—”You can turn on the TV, you can laugh, you can throw pillows, you can leave your dinosaurs on the table, and you can invite Dylan over whenever you want. This is your house too.” —”Really?” —”Really.”
