Eli stood a few feet away.
Claire quickly wiped her eyes.
“No, sweetheart.”
He looked at the ring in my hand, then back at me.
“Did you really know Grandpa for forty years?”
Even so, seeing Eli changed the shape of my anger. He wasn’t evidence on a page or another lie to uncover. He was a child with Frank’s mannerisms, Frank’s expressions, and absolutely no responsibility for the choices adults had made around him. Whatever I decided about Claire, I knew almost immediately that I could not punish that boy for being hidden from me.
That realization never erased my anger, but kept me from creating another wound inside our family.
For the first time, I looked at him properly.
He had Frank’s eyebrows.
Then he pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, exactly the way Frank always had.
My chest tightened.
“Yes,” I said.
“What was he like when he was young?”
Claire started to interrupt.
“Eli, maybe later.”
“No,” I said.
I pulled out the chair next to me.
“Come here.”
He sat down.
So I told him.
Not about death.
Not about lies.
Not about the complicated weight of a forty-year marriage.
I told him Frank could never make pancakes without burning the first batch.
Eli laughed.
“He did that here.”
I told him Frank deliberately sang the wrong words to familiar songs.
“He did that too.”
