“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
She cried.
“The truth is I was selfish.”
Finally.
“The truth is that freedom felt good.”
“And then every month I stayed away made coming back harder.”
“Then a year.”
“Then another.”
“I kept telling myself you had survived.”
“That Mom and Dad had survived.”
“That showing up again would only reopen everything.”
I stared at her.
“You looked me up.”
“Yes.”
“You saw my house.”
“Yes.”
“My job.”
“Yes.”
“Friends.”
“Yes.”
“And seeing me functioning gave you permission.”
Her face collapsed.
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more than excuses would have.
I walked toward her.
Not close enough to touch.
“I can understand hating being compared to me.”
“I can understand wanting your own identity.”
“I can even understand being frightened that coming home would erase the person you built.”
Lily nodded through tears.
“But I will never understand why my grief had to finance your freedom.”
