Chapter 26 - Yellow ribbons
Three years after the birthday party, Gigi turned five.
She wanted yellow decorations.
Of course.
I almost redirected.
“Pink?”
“No.”
“Blue?”
“Yellow.”
“Why yellow?”
“Sunshine.”
There.
Not Arthur.
Not Victoria.
Sunshine.
I ordered yellow balloons.
Yellow ribbons.
White cake.
When the boxes arrived, I stood in my kitchen staring at one roll of shimmering ribbon longer than I want to admit.
Gigi came in.
“Mommy.”
“Yes?”
“Can I have?”
My body reacted.
Old image.
Arthur moving.
Slap.
Gigi crying.
Then I looked at the child in front of me.
Five.
Healthy.
Loud.
Safe.
“Sure.”
She grabbed the ribbon.
Wrapped it around her shoulders.
“I’m queen.”
“Apparently.”
She ran away.
Nothing happened.
A ribbon became a ribbon again.
For the party, I invited:
School friends.
Maria? We had no Maria. Natalie cousin.
Natalie.
Charles.
Victoria.
Not Arthur.
That decision remained.
Arthur understood.
He sent a card through me.
No gift unless approved.
I approved the gift.
A children’s telescope.
No message about forgiveness.
Just:
Happy birthday, Gigi. I hope you like looking at the moon. Uncle Arthur.
I read it first.
Then gave it.
Gigi asked:
“Who Arthur?”
There.
Memory had faded.
I said:
“He’s my brother.”
“Like Uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Why he not here?”
Age-appropriate truth.
“He hurt you when you were little, and we still have rules about seeing him.”
She thought.
“Did he say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
Because apology and access are different systems.
I simplified.
“Sorry helps. It doesn’t always make everything go back exactly how it was.”
She nodded.
Then:
“Can I open telescope?”
May you like
Children do not require adult philosophical endings.
Good.
