For twelve years, her body had rested beneath Rebecca’s name.
After the service, her brother approached us.
Rebecca could barely look at him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He studied her for a long moment.
“You didn’t start the fire.”
“No.”
“You didn’t know she died.”
“No.”
“But you knew eventually that somebody had.”
Rebecca’s face crumpled.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“That’s the part you’ll have to live with.”
Then he walked away.
Rebecca didn’t ask him to forgive her.
I was glad.
Some apologies are obligations.
Forgiveness isn’t.
It’s been almost three years since the hospital called.
Rebecca and I speak most weeks now.
Not every day.
We aren’t inseparable.
We don’t finish each other’s sentences.
Sometimes we argue.
Sometimes she tells a story from Ohio and mentions people I’ve never met, and I feel that old flash of resentment.
