Emily cried.
Catherine gave her his watch.
Not because heirlooms determine relationship.
Because she wanted to.
Emily accepted.
I found myself unexpectedly close to Catherine.
We had no name for each other.
The maternal grandmother of my daughter.
The mother of my daughter's biological mother.
The woman my husband had lied to for thirty-two years.
Mostly we called each other.
One evening Catherine asked:
“Do you hate Zane?”
I thought.
“No.”
“Do you forgive him?”
“Not cleanly.”
She laughed.
“That's a very teacherly answer.”
“I taught English for twenty-seven years.”
“What does it mean?”
I stared at Zane's photograph on my bookshelf.
“I understand how he became the man who kept the secret.”
“I understand grief.”
“Fear.”
“Promises.”
“Then habit.”
I sighed.
“But understanding the road doesn't mean I approve of where he went.”
Catherine nodded.
“I spent years furious with Daniel for not telling me why Rebecca ran.”
“Then I found out he died trying to help her.”
