She wrote back. Briefly.
I’m alive. I’m healthy. I’m not interested in revisiting the past. Please don’t contact me again.
She mailed it the next morning.
Life settled into something quiet and firm. She turned seventy-two and celebrated with a slice of cake at the café. Denise brought a candle. Someone took a photo. Margaret didn’t look fragile in it. She looked present.
She followed Evan’s life only in the abstract, through occasional updates she didn’t seek out. He graduated eventually. Found a job. The world didn’t end for him.
That, too, clarified something.
Margaret had not destroyed anyone. She had simply stepped away.
On the anniversary of the lake incident, she went swimming. The pool water was cool but controlled. She floated on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting her breaths.
One of the lifeguards asked if she was okay.
