Not to burn them.
Not to bury them.
To read them where the house could no longer hold power over me.
I read until sunset.
Some made me smile.
Some made me ache.
Some made me angry all over again.
That was fine.
Healing that forbids anger is just obedience in better clothes.
Near dusk, my phone buzzed.
A message from my mother.
No pressure to reply. Just wanted you to know your father told the Seaview historical board the truth about the house transfer today. Publicly. He said your grandfather left it to both children and Grant forged your share. He cried. People heard him.
I stared at the message.
The tide moved in.
Ranger barked at nothing.
For a long time, I felt nothing clear enough to name.
Then I typed back:
Thank you for telling me.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then her reply came.
Thank you for allowing me to tell you things without asking you to comfort me.
I put the phone down.
That was progress.
Not reconciliation.
Not absolution.
Progress.
A year after that, I was promoted.
The ceremony was small.
Professional.
No family drama.
No public miracle.
Just a room of people who knew the current version of me, not the myth Grant had buried.
Rachel Voss attended.
So did Colonel Abrams, my current supervisor.
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