Chapter 18 - The Broken Pilgrim
Three months passed.
Winter thawed into the crisp, glorious beauty of an early New England spring. Purple crocuses and yellow daffodils pushed their way up through the dark soil of my cottage garden.
I spent my mornings painting water-colors of the lighthouse on the point and my afternoons volunteering at the Cape Haven public library. For the first time in years, my sleep was deep and undisturbed.
One Tuesday afternoon in late April, while I was outside on the front lawn wearing gardening gloves and pruning my hydrangeas, a battered, ten-year-old sedan pulled up to the curb.
The driver’s side door opened slowly.
A man stepped out.
It took me several seconds to recognize my own son.
Grant had lost at least thirty pounds. His expensive cashmere sweaters were gone, replaced by a faded denim jacket and worn jeans. His hair was streaked with gray at the temples, his face hollow, his eyes haunted and sunken.
He stood by the wooden picket fence, looking at me across the blossoming flowers. He didn't dare open the gate.
“Mom?” he croaked, his voice cracking.
I slowly stood up, setting my pruning shears into my canvas garden basket. I didn't retreat inside, nor did I invite him forward. I stood tall, the sea breeze rippling through my white linen blouse.
“Hello, Grant.”
He gripped the top of the picket fence, his knuckles turning white, his head bowing as his shoulders began to heave.
May you like
Then, right there on the gravel sidewalk of Cape Haven, my son collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands, and wept like a broken child.
***
