Fools

I'm sitting alone in a little alcove of the large Catholic church where Kathy and I have been members since our own marriage. I have Jeanette's letter in my hand, and I am weighing whether to give it to her or not.

What could she possibly have to say to the daughter she more or less abandoned so many years ago? What could she say that could unbreak a little girl's heart, the heart that pined for her mother during those long years when it was just the two of us?

Unfortunately, Jeanette can't say it in person. She was killed two years ago, murdered in a sleazy motel room by some psycho customer. I went to the funeral, but Jamie refused to go. That's when I discovered all the latent bitterness she still carried around about what Jeanette had done to us.

Thanks to counseling, both from the professional and from Kathy, she managed to let go of a lot of that bitterness. Nevertheless, I wonder how she'll receive a post-mortem missive from the woman that caused us all such pain.

Finally, I make my decision. Whatever else, Jeanette was still Jamie's mother, and I believe she wanted to make amends as best she could. It was the least I could do for the woman that had first won my heart -- never mind what she did to it.

"Sweetheart, can I talk to you alone for a second?" I say, as I entered the bustle of the bride's room, where Jamie, her maids of honor and her stepmother are all atwitter as the time approaches.

"Sure, Daddy, what is it?" Jamie says when she joins me outside the room.

"Your mother -- Jeanette -- wanted me to give this to you before you married," I say as I hand her the letter. "Please, read it with an open mind. Do it for me. Please?"

If looks could kill, I'd have been mortally wounded. Incipient brides shouldn't wear the sort of scornful look of disdain that crosses my daughter's face when I mentioned her mother.

But as she reads the letter, Jamie's features soften into the young woman I've become accustomed to seeing: the playful, kindly look of a smart, confident person. And I detect a tear or three rolling down her cheek as she finishes the letter.

"She really did love you, didn't she," Jamie says.

"Yes, in her own way, I think she did," I answer, while handing her a handkerchief. She dabs her eyes then we come together, a father and daughter who shared a critical moment in time, one that could have ended in tragedy.

"She was such a fool," Jamie says finally, as she holds me at arm's length.

"Yeah, but I was a fool, too," I say. "I knew what she was like and I married her anyway."

Then she folds the letter neatly, puts it back in the envelope and sticks it in some fold of her dress, where she can keep it close to her heart, I guess.

"Come on, Daddy," Jamie says, pulling me toward the bride's room. "My real mom is in here, and I think we need a Mom fix."

I laugh then, and it's with a bewildered look on her face -- bewildered, but bemused -- that we draw Kathy into a three-way hug that speaks volumes.

Yeah, I was a fool once, and the memories still haunt me. But I was lucky enough to get a second chance at love, with a woman who deserved it, and with her help I've been able to live a happy life again.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice? Not this time.