At the funeral, she even comforted me. Told me Nelson chose to drink that night, chose to get behind the wheel. Said the truck that hit him was just fate, and none of it was my fault.
Her voice was calm when she said it. She even patted the back of my hand.
I actually believed she'd made peace with it.
It wasn't until the poisoned wine at our engagement party hit my stomach that I realized how naive I'd been.
She had never let go. Not for a single day.
She just buried the hatred. Behind her smiles. Behind her casual concern. Inside that carefully prepared glass of wine.
When the poison took hold and I collapsed, she crouched down and looked at me. The expression on her face is something I will never forget for as long as I live.
It wasn't anger. It was satisfaction, bordering on madness.
She never once believed she'd done anything wrong.
Never believed Nelson's program was flawed. Never believed he chose to drink. Never believed he chose to drive.
All she remembered was that I embarrassed him in that meeting. That I was the one who pushed him down that road.
There was no reasoning with that kind of logic.
So in this life, I wasn't going to try.