I removed the backing. Behind it was a folded sheet of paper.
I opened it.
It was my mother’s handwriting.
I was wrong to believe I could decide what love would cost my daughter. I was wrong to confuse silence with protection.
If Hannah ever finds this room, tell her I loved her badly, but I did love her.
I held the paper against my chest.
My mother had failed me. Douglas’s mother had failed him. Our fathers had made decisions that changed the shape of our lives.
But failure was not the only thing they had left behind. There were also letters, recordings, a cottage, a scholarship, and the belated courage to admit what they had done.
Downstairs, Douglas called my name.
I returned to the porch.
“What did you find?” he asked.
I folded the note and placed it in the wooden box.
“Another apology.”
“Was it enough?”
