“You should have called me,” I said. “The day you got the diagnosis. I would have found a way to make this easier for both of you, Gordon. I’m still her mother. I’m still the person who has to help her carry whatever happens next.”
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“I know,” Gordon said. “I think I was ashamed, honestly. Of needing help from you, of all people, after everything I put you through before the divorce.”
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“That’s not a good enough reason to let our daughter skip an entire week of school and lie to me every single morning,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”
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We spent the next hour working out something considerably more sustainable than sneaking around in Roy’s truck every morning — a modified visitation schedule that let Sienna see Gordon after school and on weekends, with the school fully informed and supportive once I explained the situation to the counselor directly.
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Sienna made up her missed assignments over the following two weeks, Mrs. Carter working with her privately once she understood exactly what had actually been happening instead of simple teenage rebellion.
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Gordon passed away five weeks later, on a Tuesday morning, Sienna and I both there in the room with him, along with Roy, the four of us finally handling something honestly together instead of managing it carefully around each other’s feelings.
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