The first Sunday we didn't invite Derek's family for dinner felt uncomfortable.
For years, someone had always brought an extra salad or a pan of brownies.
Scott usually put on a game while Derek argued about the referee.
Mia and Audrey used to disappear upstairs with their plates.
Laura would help me wash dishes and tell me stories from work.
That Sunday, I set four plates on the table.
Then I stared at them.
There were only three of us.
I put the extra plate away.
Scott noticed.
“Habit?”
“Habit.”
He brought the casserole from the oven.
Audrey asked whether we could eat outside because the weather was still warm.
We carried everything to the porch.
The meal was quiet at first.
Scott asked about her history assignment.
She told him she was making a presentation about a woman who helped establish a public library.
He asked more questions than usual.
She answered every one.
I watched him listen.
Something about that mattered more than another speech about being a good parent.
After dinner, he washed the plates while Audrey dried them.
I heard her ask whether he was still friends with Derek.
“I don't know what we'll be,” he answered.
“Do you miss him?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet.
“I'm sorry.”
Scott put down a dish towel.
“You don't owe me that apology.”
“But everything happened because of me.”
“No. We made adult choices around you. You were the one affected.”
Audrey studied him.
“I don't like seeing you sad.”
He hugged her gently.
“It's okay to see me sad. It isn't your job to fix it.”
Later that week, Scott found an old photo album in the hall closet.
It was full of pictures from school reunions and camping trips.
Derek appeared on nearly every page.
Scott sat on the floor turning them slowly.
I lowered myself beside him.
“We don't have to throw these away,” I said.
“I know.”
“He was part of our lives.”
“He still was the person who lied to us.”
Both statements could be true.
Scott stared at a photo from our wedding.
Derek stood beside him wearing a crooked tie.
He was laughing at something outside the frame.
“He was the first person I called when you said yes,” Scott whispered.
I leaned against him.
Grief wasn't limited to people who died.
Sometimes it came when a living friendship no longer resembled the one you remembered.
We didn't make a final decision that night.
Scott told Derek by text that we needed an extended break from personal visits.
He asked him not to contact Audrey directly.
Derek replied with three short messages.
First, he said he understood.
Then he explained himself again.
Finally, he asked whether they could meet for coffee.
Scott didn't answer immediately.
The next morning, he wrote that he wasn't ready.
Derek replied, Okay.
For once, he stopped there.
Meanwhile, Laura and I spoke occasionally about practical matters affecting the girls.
We didn't use our conversations to discuss Derek's marriage.
When Mia had a birthday, Audrey chose a book and a small drawing set for her.
I drove her to deliver it while Laura was home.
The girls spent an hour talking at the kitchen table.
I sat on the porch with Laura.
She offered coffee.
I accepted.
We talked about rain gutters and school buses before approaching anything harder.
At Thanksgiving, the absence of our old guests was impossible to ignore.
For years, Derek had carved the turkey while Scott pretended to supervise.
Laura always brought sweet potatoes.
Mia and Audrey would place little handwritten cards at each seat.
This year, we invited my sister and her husband instead.
They arrived with a pie and stories about their new puppy.
It was a warm, pleasant afternoon.
It was also different.
At one point, Scott glanced toward the empty space by the window where Derek usually stood.
I saw him look away quickly.
After dinner, he went outside to bring in the recycling bin.
I followed him onto the porch.
“You okay?”
He nodded, then changed his mind.
“Not completely.”
I leaned on the railing.
He admitted he had missed the annual argument about whose turkey seasoning was best.
I smiled.
“You always lost that argument.”
“Because Derek cheated.”
We both laughed.
Then Scott grew quiet.
“Do you think Audrey noticed?”
“Of course she noticed the dinner was different.”
“I don't want her to think she ruined a holiday.”
“Then tell her the truth without putting the burden on her.”
That evening, Scott asked Audrey to sit with him near the fireplace.
He told her some traditions would change while he figured out his friendship with Derek.
He said it was his responsibility to handle those feelings.
Audrey looked relieved.
“I miss Mia being here,” she said.
“That's understandable.”
“Maybe next year she could come just for dessert.”
“Maybe,” Scott replied.
“We can see what everyone is comfortable with when the time comes.”
Later, my sister found me in the kitchen.
She said Audrey seemed more settled than when she'd visited in early autumn.
I told her we'd had a difficult time with a transportation arrangement and family boundaries.
I didn't share Mia's private story.
My sister listened without pressing.
“Anything I can do?” she asked.
“Actually, could you drive Audrey to the studio one Thursday next month if we need a backup?”
“Of course.”
We checked the logistics before adding her to our approved list.
I was struck by how simple asking could be when you didn't hide the reason.
My sister didn't demand praise or secrecy.
She just checked the time and promised to call if anything changed.
That was the kind of help we needed.
“I'm sorry he put you in this position,” she said.
I looked at the street.
“So am I.”
“I was angry when I found out.”
“I imagine you were.”
She pressed her lips together.
“I keep finding things he decided I didn't need to know.”
I let the sentence sit without asking for details.
Laura deserved space to figure out her own marriage.
At the end of the visit, Audrey came outside smiling.
Mia waved from the doorway.
Nobody had begged anybody to stay.
Nobody had treated the visit as a promise about the following week.
On our way home, Audrey asked why I was quiet.
“I'm thinking about how much has changed.”
“Is that bad?”
“Some of it hurts. Some of it is better.”
She considered that.
“Can both happen?”
“Yes.”
She looked out at the trees.
“I think that's how I feel about ballet now.”
She still loved it.
But her relationship with it had become more complicated.
She wanted to enjoy practice without treating every class as something she might lose.
I told her she had time to learn that again.
She turned up the radio.
We drove the rest of the way listening to a song she'd played endlessly when she was twelve.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: Audrey Told a Counselor About the Guilt She Had Been Carrying in Silence
The Instructor Closed the Door and Told Me How Many Classes Audrey Had Missed
Part 11 of 16
