The words hit like a slap, but I didn’t flinch.
“Daniel said you were sick.”
She turned away.
“I didn’t ask for your pity.”
Lily stood frozen in the doorway until I gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Mom, this is Lily. Your granddaughter.”
Silence filled the room. Then my mother’s eyes shifted toward the girl, widening with disbelief.
“She’s… she’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Just like you were.”
Dinner that night was thick with unsaid words. Daniel tried to fill the air with small talk, but the tension pressed in from every corner. After Lily went to bed, my mother finally spoke.
“I prayed every day that God would forgive you,” she said quietly. “But I couldn’t. Not after what you did.”
My throat tightened.
“I was fourteen, Mom. I didn’t do something to you. I was scared.”
“You brought shame to this family,” she hissed, her voice weak but sharp. “Your father couldn’t bear it. He died thinking you hated him.”
