The real ending came in November, when a small envelope arrived at my office with no return address. Inside was a birthday card, months late, unsigned except for my mother’s handwriting on one line:

I still don’t agree with what you did, but I understand now why you did it.

I stood by the window for a long time holding that card.

Then I placed it in my desk drawer, not because it fixed anything, but because it was the first honest sentence she had ever given me.

And that was enough.