And because he accepted the boundary, something small inside me unclenched.
Maybe not forgiveness.
But possibility.
By August, I moved into my own apartment.
Ground floor.
Sunlit kitchen.
A balcony just big enough for two chairs and a pot of basil.
Gerald helped me carry boxes, though Ruth scolded both of us and hired movers halfway through the day.
“You two are sentimental idiots,” she declared.
The first night in the apartment, Gerald brought over the music box.
“I thought you might want this here.”
I placed it on my bedside table.
Then I handed him something.
A key.
He stared at it.
“What’s this?”
“For emergencies,” I said. “And tomatoes. And bad movie nights.”
His hand closed around the key.
“You sure?”
I smiled.
“Yes, Dad.”
The word came out before I could overthink it.
Gerald froze.
His eyes filled instantly.
I laughed through my own tears.
“You can breathe.”
He pulled me into a hug.
This time, I was healed enough that he did not have to be careful.
“Daughter,” he whispered.
And I felt the word settle into me like a seed finally finding soil.
Claire had her baby in September.
A boy.
I learned from Richard, who sent one text.
Claire had the baby. His name is Noah. Both are healthy.