Halfway

    My mother was a concert pianist, and my father an English professor.  I was told as they dated that they frequently challenged each other, and my mother was known to quip, "Yes,  I will tell you all about William Faulkner as soon as you have told me all about Bela Bartok!" I thought my family was perfect, at least my mother was, until she got sick.
    My father tried to take care of her, but ended up moving us away, and she moved back in with her parents, and then eventually ended up in a facility.
    Years later during a  yearly visit to me, and her grandchildren, my father finally came over after declining many invitations to join us. He came awkwardly through the door, and stayed for dinner. After dinner he produced an Ortega weaving from Taos (purchased on an early trip together) and her favorite record- a ballet, Prokofiev's, Cinderella.  She took the record from him gingerly, though clearly she could not remember it. He was uncomfortable and I don't think I ever saw my father at loss for words before. They came out in monosyllables.  It was okay, though.  She had already forgiven him just as she always did.