of it when she was pregnant, I'm amazed you weren't born smelling like cinnamon." Elijah grinned, then grew serious. "I don't want you to be sad every time I talk about her." Marcus reached across the table and rested his hand over his son's. "Some things make me sad because they were precious," he said. "That's not your fault, and it doesn't mean we shouldn't talk about them. We just need to be careful with the people who hurt us." He agreed to meet Margaret first, without Elijah, at the public library where Nora had once worked on summer art programs.
The meeting took place on a quiet Saturday morning. Marcus arrived early and chose a table near the front windows, not because he feared Margaret, but because he wanted both of them to remain aware they were in a shared place. She entered in a plain navy coat, carrying a slim folder. For a few seconds they stood across from each other like people waiting for a verdict. "Thank you for coming," she said. "I'm here because Elijah asked questions I couldn't answer," Marcus replied. "I'm not promising you anything." Margaret sat down and opened the folder. Inside were Nora's old drawings, an envelope of photographs, and a handwritten recipe for cinnamon toast with far too much butter. She pushed them toward Marcus without ceremony. "These belong to you and Elijah whether you ever speak to me again."
Marcus examined a photograph of Nora at thirteen holding a paintbrush like a conductor's baton. He smiled involuntarily and then set the picture down. "You should have given us these years ago." "Yes," Margaret said. "I should have." He looked at her sharply. "Do you understand what it was like? You never asked what kind of father I was. You never asked if our son was healthy, what he liked, whether he sounded like Nora when he laughed. You decided what he deserved based on my skin and my wages. Then at her funeral you acted as though I was temporary, as though the person raising him every day could be replaced by a larger house." Margaret did not look away. "I remember saying those things," she said. "I have no defense for them."
He had expected a rebuttal. He had prepared answers to arguments she did not make. That did not erase his anger; it left room for him to say the thing beneath it. "She missed you," Marcus said. "Even after everything. When she was sick with a cold, she'd reach for the phone before remembering she didn't feel safe calling. She asked me once whether she had done the right thing by keeping you out. I told her yes because I couldn't stand to see her blamed again. But I also knew it broke her heart." Margaret's composure finally failed. "I know," she whispered. "I read her letters enough to know." Marcus closed the folder. "You didn't lose her in one argument. You made a choice every day you didn't change." She nodded, accepting the truth without asking him to soften it.