I was sixty-two years old, sitting at a crowded kitchen table surrounded by the ten children I had chosen and the family they had created.
I looked around at them and realized I didn’t want to carry anger into another decade.
“I forgive him,” I said.
Then we raised our teacups together.
Robert had left behind ten frightened children and one woman who had no idea how she would manage.
Thirty years later, that same table could barely hold the family we had become.
