I polished my thumb over Jesse’s sad face. I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could show anything but total love and adoration for the child in the photo.
“When the agency described what had happened to him . . . When we had to read through pages and pages of notes detailing the abuse he’d gone through . . .” Rose’s voice trembled, but she cleared her throat and continued, “Neil and I couldn’t not adopt him. We knew the risks. A young boy abused in the ways he had been had a high likelihood of becoming an extremely troubled young man. But you know what we said?” She chuckled and smiled down at the picture. “We told them to stick their ‘likelihoods’ where the sun doesn’t shine and asked to take our son home.”
I smiled with her and flipped the page. “And you all lived happily ever after.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, taking a sip of her tea, “but we didn’t underestimate the power of a stable home and a loving family. We gave him that, and the rest was up to him.”
The next page was his first day of kindergarten. Well, homeschool kindergarten, but he still had a backpack and a new pair of boots, and he posed in front of the Walkers’ front door. His eyes were still sad, but he wore a smile.
The photo on the next page was Jesse up on a horse, maybe a couple years older. He had on a hat three sizes too big for him. He had another smile on his face, but in that one, his eyes matched his smile.
“He got better,” I stated, flipping to the next page. “You and Neil fixed him.”
“It took a lot of time and even more hard work, but yes, Jesse got better,” Rose said, grabbing another album. “But he fixed himself. We gave him a hand up, but the only person who could fix Jesse was Jesse.”
When her eyes shifted back to me, they softened. She might as well have just said The only person who could fix Rowen was Rowen.
A few pages later, I found a picture of the Jesse I knew. He was a few years younger, but he wore the same white tee, painted-on jeans, light hat, and brown boots. It was the first photo I’d seen where he’d been smiling big enough to notice his dimples. My heart hurt when I stared at that picture long enough.
I started to cry again.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Rose grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“My mom hates me, Rose,” I said, wiping away the tears. “My mom brought that man back into her life. Back into my life. How could anyone who loved someone do that to them?”
“Your mother doesn’t hate you. She just has a very poor way of showing her love.” Rose scooted closer so she could wrap her arm around me. “I couldn’t tell you what drew your mom and me together way back when. She was a lot like she is today, and I was a lot like I am today. But there was a chemistry between us. She never opened up to me, but I always sensed she’d lived a hard life. One she was running away from.”
I grabbed my cup of tea and took a sip. I’d never known my grandparents. I’d never known any family other than my mom. I’d also guessed there must have been a lot of bad blood between them because I’d never once received a birthday card from my own grandparents. It was all I’d ever known though, so I’d never given it a lot of thought.
Could it be I didn’t know a single blood relative, including my own father for crying out loud, because mom had pushed away everyone? The same way she’d pushed me away as much as a parent could an underage child in their home?
While I couldn’t be certain, it seemed a very possible explanation.
“So what does that mean?” I said, taking another sip before setting my cup back down. “I forgive and forget?”
Rose shook her head. “No, Rowen. It means you let go.” She brushed my hair behind my ear in a motherly way. “Sometimes we just have to cut off the dead branches in our life. Sometimes that’s the only way we can keep the tree alive. It’s hard and it hurts, but it’s what’s best.” She paused to take a breath. “Don’t let a dying branch take you down with it. Maybe one day she’ll change, but don’t go down with her, Rowen.”
“But she’s kind of taking me down no matter what I do,” I said, unable to look away from Jesse’s picture. “Art school was my ticket out of there. But now . . . the only place I have to go at the end of summer is back home. I tried following her rules this summer. I tried so hard to please her. But none of it mattered. I doubt she was even planning on paying my way through art school in the first place.”
“Maybe she was, and maybe she wasn’t, but don’t let your mom decide your future.”
I exhaled. “Kind of hard not to in this case.” Another clap of thunder rocked the house. The lights flickered. “Art school’s kind of expensive, and money isn’t something I have a lot of.”
“Have you ever thought about starting out at a community college with a good art program? Then transferring to a dedicated art school later?” Rose poured herself another cup of tea and topped mine off.
“Not really,” I said. “But at this point, I’m willing to consider any and all options that have me doing something related to art. Unless it involves paint-by-numbers. Because that’s the opposite of art.”
Rose fought a losing battle to keep her smile contained. “Here’s the way I see it. You’ll have earned enough money this summer to pay for a year’s tuition at a community college. If you want to come back next summer, we’d be happy to have you, and you could save enough for the following year.” I wasn’t sure if what I heard was real. Was the answer to my college dilemma so easily solved? “After that, you can apply for financial aid and scholarships and get into whatever art school you want. Doing it on your own, without being dependent on your mother.”