It's not much of an acknowledgment, but it's not an argument, either, so John takes it as a good sign. He keeps up his gentle ministrations, one hand rubbing slow circles against Martin's back, and considers how best to continue. What is most worth saying, especially when Martin sounds so entirely worn out.
"You did the best that you could," he says at length. "Far more than anyone should've expected of you. Of course you'd be relieved when it was over. What was there to miss, when all she ever did was resent you for things you couldn't help?"
There's more he might say: some half-formed ideas about the frequent disparity between the familial ideal and what reality provides, and how little sense it makes to apply the former to the latter — playing the part of a dutiful son against a mother who could never be bothered with the script. But it feels like too much for a Sunday afternoon that has already crumbled into something more fraught than it had any right to be. Instead, he gives Martin a light squeeze, then presses another kiss to his hair.
"I'm sorry that she never really saw you," he softly concludes. "It was her loss."
no subject
"You did the best that you could," he says at length. "Far more than anyone should've expected of you. Of course you'd be relieved when it was over. What was there to miss, when all she ever did was resent you for things you couldn't help?"
There's more he might say: some half-formed ideas about the frequent disparity between the familial ideal and what reality provides, and how little sense it makes to apply the former to the latter — playing the part of a dutiful son against a mother who could never be bothered with the script. But it feels like too much for a Sunday afternoon that has already crumbled into something more fraught than it had any right to be. Instead, he gives Martin a light squeeze, then presses another kiss to his hair.
"I'm sorry that she never really saw you," he softly concludes. "It was her loss."