“No,” he said. “But it’s longer than I thought I had.”
I reached across the space between us and took his hand.
His fingers were cool and thin. Yet the instant we touched, something in me settled—not because the past had been repaired, but because it had finally stopped asking to be rewritten.
“I forgive you,” I said.
His eyes closed.
“But not because the years don’t matter.”
“I know.”
“They matter. We lost them.”
“I know.”
“And forgiving you doesn’t make the choices disappear.”
“No.”
“It means I don’t want to keep carrying the anger for everyone who lied to us.”
His hand tightened around mine.
“That’s enough.”
Lucas turned toward the window.
I realized he was crying quietly and pretending not to.
Douglas noticed too.
“Come here,” he said.
Lucas approached the bed.
His father reached for him.
“I’m sorry you grew up carrying pieces of this.”
