Chapter 12 - MARGARET'S FIRST APOLOGY WAS STILL ABOUT HERSELFMargaret wrote me a letter eight months after the birthday.
Leah received it first.
I chose to read it.
The opening was terrible.
I have suffered enormously since the incident at my birthday.
I almost stopped.
Then continued.
Margaret described losing family relationships.
Missing Lily.
Ryan barely speaking to her.
Susan refusing Christmas.
Rachel no longer attending Sunday dinners.
Consequences.
Then, halfway through, the letter changed.
My therapist says I keep describing what happened to me instead of what I did.
At least somebody told her.
Then:
I hit a two-year-old child because she did not respond to me the way I expected. I knew she had hearing loss. I knew exactly why she had hearing loss, or at least which side of the family carried the known risk. I blamed Claire anyway.
I read that paragraph twice.
No excuse.
Then:
I spent years believing if people knew Thomas had hereditary hearing loss they would see our family as lesser. Thomas never believed that. I did.
There it was.
Margaret admitted removing his hearing aids for photographs.
Downplaying Susan.
Pressuring Ryan.
Taking his genetic report after Lily's diagnosis.
Then the most difficult line:
When I called Lily defective, I was using the word I had been afraid people would use about my husband and son. I put my shame onto a child.
I cried.
Not because I forgave her.
Because accuracy has emotional force.
Then came the request.
I would like to apologize to Lily someday when she is old enough for the apology to be about her rather than my need to feel better. I understand that day may not come.
Better.
I showed Ryan.
He cried too.
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe she wrote it.”
He nodded.
Good answer.
We did not change Lily's boundaries.
Not yet.
Margaret sent no birthday gift directly that year.
Instead she asked Leah whether a college savings contribution would be inappropriate.
I said yes.
It was inappropriate.
Money could become another route back in.
She accepted no.
That mattered more than the contribution would have.
Meanwhile, Lily's development continued.
At three, she could say:
“Mommy, more berries.”
The first time she said it clearly, I cried.
Ryan laughed.
“She's asking for blueberries, Claire. This isn't graduation.”
“It is to me.”
He brought more berries.
Lily signed more anyway.
She liked redundancy.
Her hearing loss did not disappear.
Neither did it define every room.
May you like
That was exactly what Thomas had wanted.
And exactly what Margaret's secrecy had made impossible.
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