My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

Claire made a small sound.

My mother looked at her, then at Noah.

Then back at me.

“I do not know how to be sorry in a way that repairs anything.”

That was the most honest thing she had ever said to me.

It was not enough.

But it was honest.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I replied.

Her eyes shone.

“Nothing. I suppose I wanted to see you before you stopped being Crawford.”

“I stopped being Crawford long before the paperwork.”

She nodded.

A tear slipped down her face.

This time, I did not rush to comfort her.

Her sadness could exist without becoming my responsibility.

She looked at Gerald.

For a moment, the years between them seemed visible.

The red truck.

The yellow dress.

The letter.

The grave where he had buried a child who lived.

“I wronged you,” she said.

Gerald’s face tightened.

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

He closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, his voice was quiet.

“I believe that you are sorry now.”

My mother flinched.

Because it was not forgiveness.

It was accuracy.

She looked at me one last time.

“Happy birthday, Holly.”

“Thank you.”

There were a thousand things she might have said.

A thousand things I had once needed.

She said none of them.

Then she turned and walked back to the elevator.