It didn’t.
I didn’t want the twenty-four-year-old Rebecca back.
That woman no longer existed.
Neither did the twenty-six-year-old version of me who had painted a nursery while arguing with her sister about $900.
The harder question was whether the women we had become could build anything new.
We started with rules.
No surprise visits.
No pretending the missing years hadn’t happened.
No using trauma as a shield against accountability.
No demanding forgiveness.
No disappearing when conversations became uncomfortable.
If Rebecca needed space, she had to say so.
If I needed space, I did too.
She wrote Lucy a letter before they met.
I read it first.
It didn’t say, I’m your aunt and you should love me.
It said:
My name is Rebecca. I’m your mother’s sister. I made choices that hurt your mother deeply, and she has still allowed me the chance to meet you. You don’t owe me a relationship. If you’d like one someday, I’d be grateful to earn it.
