When the trustee finished, he asked Grandma if she wished to speak. She stood slowly, steadying herself with one hand briefly against the table, and looked at my father directly.
For a moment, I genuinely thought she might cry. Instead, she said, in a voice steadier than I expected, “Richard, I don’t want your apology.”
My father lowered his head.
“I don’t want you to tell me you were confused.”
He remained silent.
“I don’t want you to tell me you needed the money.”
Still silent.
“I want you to tell me why.”
My father finally looked up at her, his eyes visibly wet. “Because I thought you would always forgive me.”
Grandma stared at him for a long moment. He continued, his voice breaking slightly. “You always did.”
She nodded slowly. “That was my mistake.”
My father’s face crumpled entirely. “Mom—”
She raised one hand, and he stopped immediately.
