I crossed my arms. “Perspective on what?”
“On why my life turned out better.”
That honesty stung more than anything said at brunch.
Vanessa looked down. “I went along with it.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
This time, she meant it. Not because she had suddenly changed, but because public consequences had forced private truth into the open. It didn’t erase anything. But it was real.
I nodded once. “That’s a start.”
My mother didn’t apologize that day. Or that week. Her apology came three months later in a stiff handwritten note that mentioned pride, misunderstanding, and “strong personalities,” but still couldn’t quite say the words I was wrong.
I kept the note anyway.
Not because I forgave her right away.
But because it reminded me how far I had come.
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