Ruth brought flowers.
Richard brought nothing, which was perfect because he had asked beforehand and I had said, “Just come.”
Claire arrived with Noah on her hip and a gift bag in her hand. She looked nervous but present.
Noah had grown into a round-cheeked, bright-eyed little boy who regarded the courthouse as deeply suspicious.
When Claire handed him to me, he grabbed my necklace and babbled sternly.
“He has opinions,” I said.
“He gets that from every side,” Claire replied.
For once, we laughed together without it hurting.
Then the elevator doors opened.
My mother stepped out.
The hallway went quiet.
She was thinner than I remembered. Still elegant. Still composed. But there was something brittle about her now, like porcelain after a crack has been repaired.
No attorney.
No pearls.
Just Eleanor.
Claire stiffened.
Richard stepped slightly forward, then stopped himself. He looked at me instead.
My choice.
My mother approached slowly.
Gerald moved closer but did not speak.
“Holly,” she said.
“Eleanor.”
The name hit her. I saw it.
She looked toward the courtroom door.
“I heard about today.”
Of course she had.
Eleanor Crawford always had ways of hearing things she had not been told.
“I’m not here to stop it,” she said.
No one answered.
She swallowed.
“I came because… because there was a time when I could have chosen differently.”
My heartbeat slowed.
Not softened.
Slowed.
“I have spent months trying to decide whether I regret what I did,” she continued. “Some days, I still think I had no choice. Some days, I hate you for proving I did.”
Claire made a small sound.
My mother looked at her, then at Noah.
Then back at me.
“I do not know how to be sorry in a way that repairs anything.”
That was the most honest thing she had ever said to me.
It was not enough.
But it was honest.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I replied.
Her eyes shone.
“Nothing. I suppose I wanted to see you before you stopped being Crawford.”
“I stopped being Crawford long before the paperwork.”
She nodded.
A tear slipped down her face.
This time, I did not rush to comfort her.
Her sadness could exist without becoming my responsibility.
She looked at Gerald.
For a moment, the years between them seemed visible.
The red truck.
The yellow dress.
The letter.
The grave where he had buried a child who lived.
“I wronged you,” she said.
Gerald’s face tightened.
“Yes.”
“I am sorry.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his voice was quiet.