Page 67 of Buttons

“No, it’s not,” I counter gently. “It’s not okay that I’ve been distant, even before your mother moved out. And it’s certainly not okay that when I was giving you attention, it was to criticize you.”

“What’s criticize mean?” Meredith asks.

After I explain, Meredith’s head tilts to the other side, her expression curious rather than upset. “Mommy says nobody’s perfect, not even grown-ups.”

“Your mother is very wise,” I agree, glancing at Elowen, who is watching our interaction. “And she’s right. Grown-ups make mistakes, too, but that’s the point. Everyone makes mistakes, even grown-ups, and I should have let you two be children more.”

“You made a mistake, like forgetting to pick us up from school?” Meredith asks, referencing the time I’d missed a pickup because of an unexpected board meeting. I’d sent Jimmy fromaccounting instead, not understanding why Elowen was so upset when she found out.

“Worse,” I admit. “Like forgetting what’s really important.”

Leo’s watching me with an intensity that belies his nine years. “Are you and Mommy getting a divorce?” he asks directly.

The question hangs between us, and I hate it. Instincts scream to say, “No. Please God, no.” But unfortunately, it’s not a decision I can make unilaterally. There’s a high probability that Elowen and I are divorcing. Still, I look at Elowen, unsure how much she’s shared with them and how she feels about divorce. We haven’t discussed it, nor have I wanted to because I’ve been too afraid of the answer.

Turning to Elowen, I catch the confliction on her features. After a moment, she steps forward and leans down to answer our son. “That’s a tricky question, buddy. There’s a lot of memories and emotions between your father and I, so it’s not an easy ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ What I can promise you though, is that whatever happens between your father and I, it has nothing to do with how much we both love you and Meredith.”

Meredith’s small face suddenly turns serious as she turns to me. “Will we still see you? Like at the shelter?”

The question nearly undoes me. Have I been so absent that my own daughter worries I might disappear from her life completely?

“Of course,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “I’ll always be your dad. Nothing will ever change that. And yes, I’ll keep coming to the shelter.”

“Could you come to my karate lessons, too? Sarah says karate is good for self-defense,” she stumbles slightly over the word but powers through, “so I was hoping to take it.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” I say, meaning it. The image of tiny, fierce Meredith learning to channel her boundless energy into disciplined movement feels perfect for her.

But I’m not done apologizing. There’s something equally as important to bring up. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about. It’s about the way I’ve treated your mother,” I begin, the words heavy in my mouth. “And about some things I said that were hurtful and wrong.”

Leo’s expression shutters slightly. He’s old enough to sense the tension even when Elowen and I thought we were hiding it. “You made Mom cry,” he says quietly.

Devastated to hear this, I squeeze my eyes closed. As stupid as it is, I’ve only recently reconciled with myself how much I’ve hurt my wife. For so long, I believed she was overreacting, and I didn’t really comprehend how much my behavior affected our children. Hearing it stated so plainly makes the knowledge inescapable. My son knew about his mother crying, and it was entirely because of me.

“I did,” I acknowledge, my voice rough. “And I’m more sorry for that than I can possibly express.”

Meredith looks between us, confusion clouding her features. “Why did you make Mommy cry? Did you say something mean?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I said things that were very mean and very wrong. Things about how your mother looks and acts that weren’t true or fair.”

Elowen has gone very still behind the children, her expression carefully controlled.

“What kind of things?” Leo asks, his natural curiosity overcoming his caution.

I choose my words with care. “I criticized the way your mother looks sometimes. Her hair. Her nose. The same nose you both have.”

Two small hands move simultaneously to small, upturned noses. Leo touches his with careful fingers. Beside him, Meredith mimics the shape with a dramatic flair, her movements wide and expressive. Their eyes meet in silentcommunication, a moment of shared understanding that excludes me completely.

“Mommy says our noses are special,” Meredith declares, chin lifting defensively. “She says they’re like Grandma Ellen’s, and that’s why they’re perfect.”

“They are perfect,” I agree quickly. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I was wrong to ever suggest otherwise. Completely wrong.”

Leo studies me with those too-perceptive eyes. “Then why did you say it wasn’t?”

The question cuts to the heart of everything. Why did I criticize the very features that make my children who they are? Why did I try to reshape Elowen into someone she wasn’t? The answers are complex and uncomfortable, as they are rooted in my own insecurities and my need for control.

“I thought I knew what was best,” I say finally. “I thought that being successful meant looking a certain way, acting a certain way. Sometimes adults are stupid and stuck in their ways.”

“You don’t like things messy,” Meredith says. “Is that stupid?”