Chapter 4 - The Anatomy of an Apology
Ryan stood in the middle of the narrow living room, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his wool trousers as if he didn't know what to do with his arms once they weren't crossed over his chest defensively.
“She was out of line,” Ryan said, his voice dropping into that low, confidential murmur he always used when he wanted Hannah to know he was “on her side,” even while he was actively defending his mother’s right to ruin their lives. “I told her so. I told her right in front of Paige and Mark.”
“You told her,” Hannah repeated. Her voice was flat, almost conversational. She didn't look away from the small plastic tree across the room. “And what did she say, Ryan?”
Ryan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze dropping to the frayed edge of the rug. “Well... you know how Mom is. She’s seventy-two. She’s set in her ways. She feels like her house was disrespected because of the cranberry sauce on the runner. She thinks—and I’m not saying she’s right, Hannah, I’m just telling you how her brain works—she thinks you were undermining her authority in front of the whole family.”
Hannah turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto his with a clarity that made him flinch. “My authority over my three-year-old child in front of her family?”
“She’s old school,” Ryan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “She thinks parenting is a group project. Look, I talked to her for forty-5 minutes after you left. She agreed to apologize.”
“She agreed to apologize,” Hannah echoed. A cold, humourless smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Did she call me trash to my face, or did she send you here to deliver the terms of her pardon?”
“She didn’t send me! I came because my wife and daughter walked out into twenty-nine-degree weather without their coats!” Ryan’s voice rose a fraction of an octave, the familiar defensive edge creeping back into his tone. “What was I supposed to do, Hannah? Just drop everything and leave my seventy-two-year-old mother crying in the kitchen on Christmas night?”
“Yes,” Hannah said simply.
Ryan stared at her as if she had spoken in Latin. “What?”
“Yes, Ryan. When your mother physically assaults your wife in front of seven people and calls her trash, the correct response—the only response for a man who claims to be married—is to grab your coat, pick up your child, and walk out the front door right beside us. Not stay behind to ‘calm everyone down.’”
Ryan flinched as if she had slapped him with the same hand Judith had used.
“You don’t understand how things work in that family,” he said, his voice dropping into a desperate plea for understanding. “If I had walked out with you, Mom would have written us out of the will. She would have cut off the college fund she set up for Ellie before she was even born. She would have made sure Paige and Scott never spoke to us again.”
“Let her,” Hannah said softly.
Ryan stared at her, his mouth slightly open. “Let her what?”
“Let her cut us off. Let her write us out of the will. Let her keep her damn silver and her linen runners and her twelve-foot tree.” Hannah stood up from the sofa, her blanket falling around her ankles. She wasn't shouting. She was standing straight, looking down at the man she had spent six years trying to please. “Because I am done, Ryan. I am done sitting at that table pretending that being treated like a second-class guest in my own life is the price of admission for being part of your family.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Ryan said, though the words lacked any real conviction. He was just saying them because he didn't know any other language. “It was a bad night. Christmas makes everyone crazy. If we just go back tomorrow morning for brunch like we planned—bring some flowers, apologize for the tone at the dinner table—everything will go back to normal.”
Hannah walked past him toward the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. She stopped at the doorway and looked back over her shoulder.
“There is no tomorrow morning, Ryan,” she said quietly. “You can go back to Mason for brunch if you want. You can eat Judith’s quiche and smile for Paige’s camera and pretend nothing happened.”
“And you?” Ryan asked, his voice suddenly sounding very small in the quiet house. “What are you going to do?”
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“I’m going to stay right here,” Hannah said. “And tomorrow morning, I’m going to wake up my daughter, make pancakes, and watch cartoons in our pajamas. In our house.”
She walked into the kitchen and let the swinging door click shut behind her.
