I looked at the two missing bedroom doors.
A scene had already happened.
Possibly an entire season.
But Harold nodded.
“Fine.”
Grace went back into the guest room.
Then turned around.
“Could you at least hang a blanket?”
Harold paused.
“That’s fair.”
She smiled sweetly.
Too sweetly.
“Thank you.”
I should have known.
Grace surrendering quietly should have worried me more than Grace screaming.
But it was after midnight.
We were exhausted.
So Harold hung a thick comforter across the guest-room doorway.
Then we went downstairs.
Our own bedroom door was still leaning against the wall.
“I could reinstall ours now,” he said.
“At one in the morning?”
He looked at the hinges.
Then at me.
“Good
point.”
We hung a blanket there too.
For the first time all night, I laughed.
Harold sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not stopping this sooner.”
I sat beside him.
“You stopped it tonight.”
“That’s the problem.”
He stared toward the blanket hanging in place of our door.
“I keep believing that if I explain things correctly, she’ll finally understand.”
“She understands.”
He looked at me.
“She just doesn’t agree.”
That hurt him.
I could see it.
Some people spend years believing every conflict comes from misunderstanding.
Because misunderstandings can be repaired.
Explain better.
Choose different words.
Try again.
It is much harder to accept that someone understands your boundary perfectly and simply believes they should not have to respect it.
Harold rubbed his hands together.
“When Dad left, I was twelve.”
I already knew pieces of the story.
“He moved two states away.
