My heart cracked open.
“I didn’t hate him,” I whispered. “I hated what you made me feel — unwanted.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she turned her face away.
“Maybe I deserve that.”
That night, I lay awake listening to the old house creak. Somewhere down the hall, my mother coughed — fragile, fading. And for the first time in years, I felt something unexpected: not anger, but sorrow.
Morning light streamed through the faded curtains, painting the room gold. I sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee when Lily padded in, barefoot, her hair a messy halo from sleep.
“Mom,” she said softly. “Grandma was crying last night.”
I sighed.
“Yeah. We’ve both got a lot of things we never said.”
She hesitated.
“You always told me people can change if they really want to.”
