I had no answer.
Leo stood and walked away from the table.
I followed him into the hallway.
“I thought my mother abandoned me and you just didn’t want me to know,” he said.
“I didn’t want you to think you weren’t loved. I love you, Leo.”
“But you also thought that she left because of me?”
“Yes, and I hated her for 18 years.”
He wiped his face angrily.
“I feel happy that she loved me. Is that bad?”
“No.”
“I also feel angry.”
“So do I.”
We stood there crying together, relieved by the truth and wounded by it at the same time.
Then Leo asked, “What did she look like?”
That question broke something inside me.
In 18 years, I had not told him anything about his mother.
I had told myself I was protecting him.
The realization made me feel sick.
Goldi had decided I could not handle losing her.
I had decided Leo could not handle knowing her.
The same kind of silence had passed from one parent to another.
“Come with me,” I said.
I led him to the garage.
At the back of a cabinet was a sealed plastic box I had not opened since we moved out of our old apartment.
I had found it too painful to look at what was inside it.
