“Why did you stop writing?”
I felt as though someone had punched me.
“I didn’t.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I wrote constantly.”
“No.”
“Grandma said you stopped after two years.”
“She lied.”
I hated saying that.
But it was true.
Lily breathed shakily.
“I got six letters.”
“Six?”
“Yes.”
“I sent dozens.”
Maybe hundreds.
Birthday cards.
Drawings.
School congratulations based on guesses.
Letters about books.
Letters about the weather.
Letters apologizing.
Letters saying I loved her.
My mother had intercepted most.
Lily cried.
Then she asked.
“Did you really choose Cole over me?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“No.”
“You drove the car.”
“Yes.”
“You knew he was robbing the pharmacy.”
“I knew he planned to steal pills.”
“That’s still terrible.”
“Yes.”
I did not defend myself.
“I made a terrible decision.”
“I thought I could stay outside the worst part of it.”
“I was wrong.”
“I paid for that.”
“You paid too.”
Lily became quiet.
Then said.
“Grandma said you never took responsibility.”
“I just did.”
That changed something.
Not everything.
But something.
We talked for forty minutes.
She did not say she loved me.
I did not ask.
She did not call me Mom.
I did not correct her.
At the end, she asked.
“Where are you staying?”
I hesitated.
“In a cave.”
There was silence.
Then she laughed.
A surprised, disbelieving laugh.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“You got out of prison and moved into a cave?”
“Technically, I was homeless first.”
She laughed harder.
I laughed too.
That was our first shared moment.
It mattered more than I can explain.
Two weeks later, Lily visited.
Samuel drove her.
She was tall.
Almost my height.
She had my hair.
My grandfather’s eyes.
She stepped out of the truck and stared at me.
I did not move.
I wanted to run to her.
I did not.
She chose.
After several seconds, she walked forward.
Then hugged me.
I broke.
Completely.
I held her.
She held me.
Eleven years disappeared and remained at the same time.
“I’m sorry.”
I whispered it into her hair.
“I know.”
She answered.
That was not forgiveness.
But it was a beginning.
Lily loved the cave.
That surprised me.
She found my grandfather’s box fascinating.
She read his letter.
Then said.
“He knew you’d come here.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s creepy.”
I laughed.
“Your great-grandfather would love that.”
She met Patch.
Patch adored her instantly.
