He wiped his face.
“But I did them.”
“Forgiving me doesn't rewrite that.”
No.
It doesn't.
I asked:
“What do you want?”
He thought.
“Maybe someday you tell me about your life again.”
My throat tightened.
“Not money.”
“No.”
“The company.”
“No.”
“Your house.”
He gave a broken laugh.
“Definitely no.”
Then:
“Just… if you ever want to.”
I did not hug him.
Not then.
But I said:
“I'll think about it.”
And for the first time, Trevor accepted uncertainty without trying to force a better answer.
That mattered.
CHAPTER 8 — ON MY SEVENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, MY SON HANDED ME THE SAME LOCKET HE THREW ASIDE THE NIGHT HE HIT ME
Four years after Trevor's thirtieth birthday, I turned seventy-two.
I held the party at Cedarline's old equipment yard.
Not River Oaks.
Not a country club.
The yard.
Steel tables.
Barbecue.
Employees.
Retirees.
Families.
Ana complained there was dust.
I reminded her we were a construction company.
