My mother cried harder.
“I know.”
We sat in silence.
Then she said.
“I’m sorry.”
I had imagined that sentence for years.
When it finally came, it did not fix everything.
But it mattered.
“I accept that you’re sorry.”
She looked at me.
“Is that forgiveness?”
“Not yet.”
She nodded.
“That’s fair.”
We did not hug.
Not that day.
Repair took time.
My mother began visiting Lily without talking badly about me.
Then she attended one Ridge House fundraiser.
Then another.
Eventually, she donated kitchen supplies.
Small steps.
Mark took longer.
He remained angry about the land.
Then his marriage ended.
He lost his job.
He discovered what being judged by one failure felt like.
I did not enjoy the irony.
When he called asking for help, I met him for coffee.
Not money.
At first.
Just coffee.
He apologized.
Not beautifully.
Mark was never good with words.
