Chloe nodded quickly. “Me too.”
I looked at those children, whom I loved more than I loved my own pride, and felt the last sharp piece of yesterday’s hurt finally loosen.
So I opened my arms.
They came to me all at once.
Later, Daniel sat beside me on the towel while the kids ran toward the waves.
“I should have said something yesterday,” he admitted.
“Yes,” I said.
He winced. “I know.”
I looked at him then. Really looked.
He was no longer the little boy I had raised. He was a middle-aged man now, with lines around his eyes and worry sitting in his shoulders. He was old enough to understand that silence can cut just as deeply as words.
“You can do better next time,” I told him.
He nodded. “I will.”
That night, Ava posted one of our recreated beach pictures. It was the one where I stood in my bikini with my hands on my hips while all three grandchildren posed beside me like backup dancers with terrible attitudes.
Her caption read:
“Our grandma is cooler than all of us.”
She showed it to me before posting it.
“Aren’t you worried about what people will say?” I asked.
She smiled a little.
“Let them stare.”
Was the grandmother right to wear the swimsuit anyway, or should she have protected her grandchildren from feeling uncomfortable?
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