“And you are. You go out, chase your business, worry about money. Since when do you want to raise a nine-year-old?”
“Maybe I’m ready for something more than that.”
“You barely call him, Lisa.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“You didn’t care enough to show up. So why do you suddenly want him living with you?”
Lisa’s expression hardened. “I’m going to fight for my nephew.”
“Lisa…”
“I’ll see you in court.”
She grabbed her purse and left.
In the end, guardianship went to me.
Back in the hospital, I looked at Walter.
“Why did she want me back then?” Walter asked.
“I thought she was grieving.”
“And now?”
I glanced toward the door. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Maybe because admitting otherwise meant acknowledging things about my daughter I had spent years refusing to see.
Lying in that hospital bed, I began wondering whether I had misunderstood that old argument completely.
“Walter,” I whispered, “did Aunt Lisa say anything else?”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“There was something weird.”
My stomach tightened. “Tell me.”
“She asked me about your glasses.”
“My glasses?”
“Before the accident.”
“When?”
“The morning when it happened.”
Another memory surfaced.
Lisa had been standing in my kitchen.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“I’m late, and I can’t find my driving glasses.”
“Use the old pair.”
“They’re too weak.”
She’d rolled her eyes. “Just wear your old pair. You can see fine in those.”
I remembered hesitating.
Then taking them.
After that came only fragments—a blurry road sign, a horn, then metal.
For the first time, I wondered whether the biggest mistake that morning had really been mine.
I returned to the hospital room.
“Walter, what did she ask you?”
He frowned, trying to remember. “She said, ‘Does your grandma always drive in those old glasses?’”
“When?”
“A few days before the accident.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know it mattered.”
Neither had I.
Until now.
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