My grandson started seeing a counselor. At first he hated going. Then one afternoon he came home and told me that the counselor had said children were allowed to tell the truth even when adults found the truth embarrassing.
He repeated the sentence twice, as though testing whether it would still be true the second time.
His relationship with his father repaired more slowly.
That was probably healthier.
My son showed up for school meetings. He learned the names of teachers he should have known years earlier. When my grandson told him something uncomfortable, he stopped asking whether his mother would tell the story differently before deciding whether to listen.
One cold Saturday near the end of winter, my son brought over a cardboard box of belongings recovered from the house.
Near the bottom was the coat my daughter-in-law had taken that night.
My grandson pulled it out and held it by the shoulders.
