Emily stared at her own hands.
“I don't know.”
“Then we don't decide today.”
She looked up.
A tiny, grateful nod.
Good.
Then Helen handed me one final document.
A cemetery receipt.
Zane had visited Grace's memorial every year on the anniversary of her death.
Every single year.
Sometimes the dates fell while he was supposedly traveling for work.
Once while I thought he was visiting his brother.
Another time on our anniversary weekend.
He had carried flowers to the daughter I did not know existed—
then come home to me.
I started crying again.
“I don't understand how he lived like that.”
Rebecca said softly:
“Badly, probably.”
I looked at her.
She continued.
“That doesn't excuse him.”
“No.”
“But people can punish themselves for years and still avoid doing the one thing that would actually repair harm.”
That was Zane.
Remorse had become another hiding place.
He suffered.
So he believed he was paying.
