“I’m sorry,” she said, and for the first time it sounded less like a line and more like a sentence with weight. “I thought I could make a life out of a lie if the lie paid well enough. I was wrong.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“I’m not asking for money,” she blurted. “I know I can’t. I know I shouldn’t. I just—” She swallowed. “I need you to know I’m getting help. Parenting classes. A therapist. A job at the daycare. Tyler… he’s good. He wants to share custody when the baby’s older. I’m trying.”
I studied her hands, the chipped polish, the small scar on her knuckle from the time she tried to open a can with a butter knife at fourteen. “Trying is a verb,” I said. “It counts.”
She nodded, eyes wet. “Can I… can I send you photos sometimes? Of him. Not for money. Just because you’re his aunt.”
I thought of the savings account with the plain name and the balance that had quietly grown. I thought of the cap that had fallen on my porch in the rain. “You can send photos,” I said. “I won’t respond every time. That’s not punishment. It’s just… space.”
“That’s fair.” She stood, then hesitated. “He smiles in his sleep,” she said softly. “Like he knows a good joke and he’s saving it.”