My father sitting at the far end of the hallway, hands clasped, not looking at me.
He had aged ten years since morning.
For a while, I hated him for that too.
For looking wounded now.
For showing pain only when consequences reached his son.
After forty-seven minutes, the conference room door opened.
My mother came out first.
Her lipstick was gone.
Her eyes were swollen.
She looked at me like she had crossed a desert and found the person she had refused to search for.
“Lillian,” she whispered.
My father stood.
“Judith.”
She turned toward him.
Her voice shook, but it held.
“No, Warren.”
Two words.
Small.
Late.
But real enough to freeze him.
Rachel stepped out behind her with another investigator.
My mother clutched a tissue in one hand and a small manila envelope in the other.
She walked toward me.
Slowly.
As if I might disappear.
I almost told her not to come closer.
I almost stayed hard.
But when she reached me, she did not try to hug me.
She knew she had lost that right.
Instead, she held out the envelope.
“I kept this,” she said.
I looked at it.
“What is it?”
Her mouth trembled.
“The first letter you sent after you left.”
My chest tightened.
“I sent dozens.”
“I know.”
Those two words nearly knocked the air out of me.
I looked at Rachel.
Rachel nodded once.
My mother said, “Grant told us you were sending manipulative letters. He said we shouldn’t answer because it would encourage you.”
My father’s voice came from behind her.
“Judith, stop.”
She flinched.
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