Chapter 17 - The Mathematics of Neglect
I pulled up a wooden kitchen chair, sat down directly in front of David’s armchair, and crossed my legs.
"David, let me tell you a story about a girl who was seventeen years old," I began, my voice dangerously soft.
"It was a July morning in 2008."
"She had packed her single canvas duffel bag and placed it by the front door."
"She had spent three days cleaning the garage, changing the oil in the family car, and mowing the lawn so her parents wouldn't have to worry while they were at the beach."
"When the minivan pulled up, she counted the seat belts."
"There were seven people and seven seats."
"And when she asked where she was supposed to sit, you looked her in the eye and told her there was no room."
David’s face drained of what little color it had left, his lips parting in a silent, suffocating gasp.
"You handed her a forty-dollar gift card and told her to buy herself dinner while you drove away toward the ocean."
"You didn't look back once."
"You didn't call her that night to see if she had eaten."
"You didn't check on her for eleven straight years."
"And now, you're crying because your house is cold for forty-eight hours?"
"Emma, stop it... please, stop it," Marilyn sobbed, collapsing onto her knees beside my chair and clutching the hem of my wool coat.
"We were wrong! We were selfish, horrible parents!"
"We paid for it! We lost everything!"
"Why won't you just forgive us and let us live in peace?"
I reached down, grabbed Marilyn by her thin, wrinkled shoulders, and forced her to stand up straight.
"Forgiveness isn't something you beg for on a cold living room floor, Marilyn," I said, staring directly into her tear-streaked face.
"Forgiveness is something you earn through decades of accountability."
"And you two haven't even taken the first step."
"What do you want us to do?!" David roared, his voice cracking with a sudden burst of desperate fury as tears streamed down his sunken cheeks.
"Do you want us to crawl to Montana on our hands and knees?!"
"No," I replied, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off my coat sleeves.
May you like
"I want you to sit here in this cold house every single day and remember what it feels like to be completely, utterly invisible."
"Just like I was."
