PART 3
He stepped toward her wheelchair, reaching for the handles.
She pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
Those three words came out so softly that I almost missed them.
But Roscoe heard them.
So did Jasmine.
And so did the boys.
His mother had spent most of her life defending that man.
When he was a little boy, she defended him when he broke windows, skipped school, and got into fights.
When he was a teenager, she defended him when he came home drunk.
When he married me, she told everyone that her son had finally found a woman who knew how to take care of him.
Even after her stroke, when she couldn’t walk without help, she’d tell me how proud she was of him.
“He works so hard, Libby-girl,” she’d say. “He never had an easy life.”
I never argued.
I knew she loved her son.
But now she was looking at the same son who had just stood in front of his wife and grandchildren and explained why another woman deserved a place in his truck.
“How long?” she asked.
Roscoe rubbed the back of his neck.
“Mother, this isn’t the place.”
“How long have you been bringing that woman around?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes.
“Look, I don’t think we need to do this.”
His mother slowly turned her head toward her.
“Excuse me?”
Jasmine crossed her arms.
“I’m just saying, this is between adults. There’s no reason to make everybody uncomfortable.”
His mother stared at her.
Then she gave a small, bitter laugh.
“Between adults?”
She pointed one trembling finger toward the boys.
“Those are children. Those children came here with a sign because they love their grandfather. And you think the problem is that somebody is making you uncomfortable?”
Jasmine’s smile disappeared.
Roscoe stepped between them.
“That’s enough, Ma.”
“No, son. It isn’t.”
His mother took a breath.
“I’ve spent my whole life making excuses for you. I told myself you were a good boy who sometimes made bad decisions. I told Libby to be patient when you were gone for weeks. I told her you were tired when you forgot birthdays. I told her you were under pressure when you came home angry.”
Her voice began to shake.
“And now I find out that while this woman was riding around with you, your wife was bathing me, feeding me, washing my clothes, and making sure I never felt like a burden.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Ma, please,” I whispered.
She looked at me.
“Don’t you dare apologize for anything, Libby-girl.”
Then she turned back to Roscoe.
“Do you know what she did last night?”
He said nothing.
“She stayed awake until nearly three in the morning because I was having trouble breathing. She sat beside my bed and held my hand. She called the nurse. She changed my sheets. And when I finally fell asleep, she went downstairs and packed your sandwiches because she thought you were coming home today.”
Roscoe looked down.
His mother continued.
“She did all that while you were kissing somebody else.”
For the first time, Jasmine let go of his arm.
“Roscoe, maybe we should go.”
His mother looked at her.
“Yes. You should.”
Roscoe snapped.
“Mother, stop treating me like I’m a child!”
His mother’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’m not treating you like a child. I’m treating you like a man who has forgotten what being a husband and father means.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Then my oldest grandson tugged on my coat.
“Grandma?”
I looked down.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Is Grandpa still our grandpa?”
That question nearly broke me.
I knelt in front of him.
“Of course he is, honey. Nothing changes how much you boys deserve to be loved.”
“But why did he kiss that lady?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Not one that a seven-year-old should have to hear.
I pulled him into my arms.
“Sometimes grown-ups make choices that hurt people. But that’s never the children’s fault.”
Behind me, Roscoe cleared his throat.
“Come on, boys. Grandpa’s home. Let’s get out of here.”
The little one didn’t move.
He looked at the pizza-box sign in his hands.
Then he looked at Roscoe.
“We made this for you.”
Roscoe forced a smile.
“I know, buddy.”
“We worked on it all morning.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to put it in your truck.”
Roscoe looked at the sign.
For a second, I thought he might finally understand what he’d done.
Then he said something I’ll never forget.
“Well, maybe next time.”
My grandson lowered the sign.
And just like that, something changed in his little face.
He wasn’t crying.
He wasn’t angry.
He just looked disappointed.
Sometimes disappointment is much harder to watch than tears.
I stood up and took the sign from his hands.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go sit with Great-Grandma.”
Roscoe frowned.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“We haven’t even talked.”
I looked at him.
“You’ve talked enough for one afternoon.”
“Libby, don’t start acting crazy.”
His mother closed her eyes.
“Roscoe.”
But I was already turning away.
I pushed his mother’s wheelchair toward the restaurant entrance while the boys followed.
Behind us, I heard Jasmine whisper something.
Then I heard Roscoe say, “Just wait here.”
I didn’t turn around.
Not once.
Inside the restaurant, I helped his mother settle near the window.
The boys sat on either side of her.
I ordered hot chocolate for them and coffee for myself.
For several minutes, nobody said anything.
Then his mother reached across the table and took my hand.
“Libby-girl.”
I looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
“Yes, I do.”
She swallowed.
“I raised him.”
I squeezed her hand.
“You raised a little boy. You didn’t make every decision that man made afterward.”
Her eyes filled again.
“I always thought he’d take care of you.”
I looked out the window.
“I thought so too.”
A few minutes later, Roscoe walked into the restaurant.
Jasmine wasn’t with him.
He came straight to our table.
“Can we talk?”
I kept stirring my coffee.
“About what?”
“About what happened.”
“What part?”
He looked irritated.
“Don’t do that, Lib.”
I put my spoon down.
“You told me you were lonely. You told me Jasmine wasn’t the only woman. You kissed her in front of our grandsons. What exactly would you like to explain?”
He glanced at the boys.
“Not in front of the kids.”
“Then perhaps you should have thought about that before doing it in front of them.”
His jaw tightened.
“Forty years, Libby. Forty years together. You’re really going to throw all that away over one mistake?”
I looked at him.
“One mistake?”
He sighed.
“Fine. It wasn’t just one time.”
His mother gasped.
I didn’t move.
He continued.
“I’ve known Jasmine for about eight months.”
Eight months.
I repeated those words inside my head.
Eight months.
Eight months of me making his favorite meals.
Eight months of me telling his grandchildren that Grandpa was working hard.
Eight months of me believing that every phone call from the road meant something.
“Does she know you’re married?” I asked.
He gave me a look.
“Of course she knows.”
“Does she know you have a wife at home taking care of your mother?”
He didn’t answer.
“Does she know that when your mother falls at night, I’m the one who gets her up?”
“Libby, don’t make this about Ma.”
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I suddenly understood how little he thought about the things I did.
“You’re right, Roscoe. It isn’t about your mother. It’s about you.”
He pulled out the chair opposite me.
“Look, I don’t want a divorce. I just want things to calm down. Jasmine and I have something, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”
His mother pushed her coffee away.
“Get out.”
Roscoe turned.
“Ma—”
“Get out of this restaurant and leave your wife alone.”
“You’re choosing her over your own son?”
His mother looked at him with tears running down her cheeks.
“No, son. I’m choosing the woman who has been there for me when I needed someone.”
He stood there for a moment.
Then he looked at me.
“I’ll be home tonight. We can discuss this properly.”
I didn’t respond.
He walked away.
Through the window, I watched him cross the parking lot toward his pickup.
Jasmine was waiting beside it.
She said something.
He shook his head.
Then she climbed into the passenger seat.
They drove away.
I sat there for another ten minutes.
Then I took out my phone.
There was one person I needed to call.
My sister, Martha.
She lived about twenty minutes away and had always been the person I called when life became too heavy.
She answered on the second ring.
“Libby? Everything okay?”
I looked at the boys.
Then at the old woman sitting beside me.
“No, Martha. Nothing is okay.”
“What happened?”
I took a breath.
“Can you come over tonight? I think I need you.”
She didn’t ask another question.
“I’ll be there.”
We got home around four-thirty.
I helped the boys wash their hands and put their coats away.
Then I warmed some soup for everyone.
His mother barely ate.
She kept staring at the front window.
“Do you think he’ll come home?” she asked.
I sat beside her.
“I don’t know.”
“He’s still my boy.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to lose him.”
I held her hand.
“You aren’t losing him because of something I did. He’s responsible for his own choices.”
She nodded slowly.
Then she said something that surprised me.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Libby-girl.”
I turned toward her.
“What is it?”
She looked toward the hallway to make sure the boys weren’t listening.
“Before my stroke, I heard Roscoe talking on the phone.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did you hear?”
“He was talking about money.”
“What money?”
She shook her head.
“I couldn’t understand everything. But I heard him say something about selling the property.”
I frowned.
“What property?”
“The little house.”
I stared at her.
The little house was the property his father had left behind.
It sat on three acres outside town.
It wasn’t fancy, but it had been in his family for generations.
Roscoe had always said he wanted to keep it for the grandchildren.
