The phone rang at exactly nine in the morning. I was just pouring myself a second cup of coffee—weak, diluted with milk, as Dr. Bennett had prescribed. A phone call so early never boded well, especially when you live alone and you’re seventy-two.

“Hello,” I said, gripping the receiver a little tighter than necessary.

“Mrs. Windham. Merl Windham.” It was a male voice, unfamiliar but professionally polite.

“Yes, that’s me,” I replied, feeling a chill run down my spine. Calls like this at my age usually mean only one thing.

“My name is Hart Pallister. I’m Everett Windham’s lawyer.” He paused long enough for me to understand the news would be bad. “I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Windham passed away last night. Heart attack. The doctors couldn’t do anything.”

I sank down onto a kitchen chair. Everett—dead. Even though we had been divorced for fifteen years, the news hit me harder than I could have expected. We had been together for twenty-seven years, most of my adult life.

“I’m so sorry,” the lawyer continued. “I know you were divorced, but I felt it was my duty to inform you personally. Tabitha is arranging the funeral. It will be this Friday at two in the afternoon at St. James Church.”

“Thank you for letting me know.” My voice sounded steady, as it always did in difficult moments. The ability to remain calm when everything inside was turning upside down was the only thing that helped me survive my marriage to Everett.

When I hung up, I didn’t cry. Tears had never been my way of coping with grief. Instead, I mechanically washed the cup, wiped the counter, and sat down by the window, looking at my small, neat garden—the garden I was able to start only after the divorce, when I stopped spending money on Everett’s bar tabs. Everett was dead. Seventy isn’t that old by today’s standards, yet his heart had finally given out. The doctors had warned him when we were still together.

The phone rang again. This time, my daughter’s name lit up the screen.

“Mom.” Tabitha’s voice was as cold as the January wind in Riverside. “Do you know?”

“Yes. Your father’s lawyer just called.”

“Pallister?” Her voice sounded annoyed. “Why would he call you? You’ve been divorced for a hundred years.”

“Fifteen,” I corrected automatically. “I think he was just being polite.”

Tabitha snorted. There was so much familiar contempt in that sound that I could almost see her rolling her eyes, just like she did as a teenager when I tried to set a curfew for her.

“Listen to me carefully.” Her voice turned metallic. “I don’t want you to come to the funeral. You don’t belong there.”

I gripped the phone a little tighter, but my voice remained steady. “Tabitha, I was his wife for twenty-seven years. I gave birth to his two children.”

“And then you left him when he needed you most.” Her voice rose into a scream. “You never loved him. You’re a cold, selfish woman who didn’t give a damn about our family. You went off to your job and pretended everything was fine while Dad was suffering.”

The same old accusations I’d heard hundreds of times before. Tabitha had always been Daddy’s little girl—even when he drank away the money she’d saved for her schoolbooks.

“Tabitha—” I began.

“No, I don’t want to hear it. If you come here, I’ll throw you out myself. Don’t you dare ruin my father’s funeral.”

The line went dead.

I looked at the phone, feeling the familiar dull ache in my chest. She never let me explain. She never wanted to know the truth about what went on behind the closed doors of our house on Elm Street. Everett was a good man when he wasn’t drinking. He was funny, charming, could make anyone laugh. The kids loved him for his Sunday fishing trips and the stories he told them before bed. The other Everett—the one who came home after a few glasses of whiskey—was a stranger I feared. Only I knew that… and, unfortunately, our son Felen.

My thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing again. This time, it was my grandson Corey—Tabitha’s son, a nineteen-year-old who had enrolled in a local college and inherited his grandfather’s best traits: a lively mind and a kind heart, but, fortunately, not his weakness for alcohol.

“Grandma,” his voice sounded muffled, as if he were speaking from inside a closet. “Did you hear the news?”

“Yes, dear. I’m so sorry.”

“Mom said she won’t let you come to the funeral,” he said indignantly. “That’s not fair.”

“That’s life, Corey,” I sighed. “Sometimes people only see what they want to see. But you have to say goodbye to Grandpa.”

“He always spoke of you with respect,” Corey said, “even after everything.”

That surprised me. Everett had never been prone to remorse or admitting his mistakes—at least not in the years we were together.

“The funeral is Friday at two at St. James Church,” Corey repeated the information I already knew from the lawyer. “And then he’ll be buried at West Cemetery where his parents are. I think you should go, even if Mom says no.”

“Cy, I don’t want to cause any trouble on a day like this.”

“And after the funeral, there will be a reading of the will at Mr. Pallister’s office,” Corey continued, as if he hadn’t heard my objections. “At four o’clock. Mom is sure that Grandpa left everything to her and Falen. She’s already making plans for how she’s going to dispose of his house and auto repair shop.”

I shook my head. Typical Tabitha—already dividing up the spoils.

“Cy, I have to go,” I said, hearing movement on the other end of the line.

“Yes—Mom’s back,” he whispered. “I’ll call you later, Grandma. And I think you should come. It’s your right, too.”

After the call, I sat motionless for a long time, staring out the window. Memories came flooding back—from my first meeting with Everett at Jenny’s Diner, where I worked as a waitress, to the last day of our marriage, that dark, terrible day I had tried to erase from my memory all these years.

Everett was a handsome man—tall, broad-shouldered, with thick dark hair and a smile that made young waitresses weak in the knees. He was a truck driver, traveling all over the state and beyond, bringing me little souvenirs from his trips. Many women pursued him, but he chose me—a quiet, serious girl saving money for college. College remained a dream. Instead of studying, I got pregnant with Tabitha six months after the wedding. Then Felen was born. I got a job at Tom’s Hardware, where I worked for almost forty years, rising from sales clerk to assistant manager. It wasn’t a brilliant career, but it was stable enough to support my children—especially when Everett started drinking.

His alcohol problems began after an accident. A truck skidded on an icy road, and although Everett got away with a couple of broken bones, a man in a car was killed. Everett wasn’t at fault. The road was like a skating rink, and witnesses confirmed he did everything he could to avoid the collision, but the guilt gnawed at him. The company transferred him to local routes, which meant less pay. Money problems began. At first, he only drank on weekends. Then the binges got longer. He lost his job, found a new one, lost it again. I took extra shifts to pay the bills. The children grew up not understanding why their mother was always at work and their father so cheerful and generous when he was sober—and so sullen when he drank.

Tabitha always defended her father. “He’s having a hard time. You don’t understand him at all. If you really loved him, he wouldn’t drink.” How many evenings I spent listening to these accusations.

Felen was younger, quieter. He saw more than his sister, even though I tried my best to shield the children from the worst moments.

That last evening is still vivid in my mind—as if it were yesterday, not fifteen years ago. Everett came home drunk and angry. Felen was twenty-three at the time, just back from college, which he had dropped out of after his freshman year because he couldn’t handle the studies. I don’t know what Everett said to him, what words led to that fight. I just heard a crash and screams, ran into the room, and saw my husband choking our son, pressing him against the wall. I screamed, tried to pull him away. Felen was already turning blue. At that moment, I knew that in another minute Everett would kill our boy. I don’t remember where I found the strength, but I grabbed a heavy table lamp and hit Everett on the head. He fell and slid down the wall, gasping and clutching his throat.

When Everett came to, I gave him an ultimatum: either he got treatment for alcoholism or I filed for divorce and reported him to the police for assaulting our son. Everett agreed to get treatment, but our marriage was already beyond repair. We divorced six months later, much to the fury of Tabitha, who didn’t know the whole story. Everett and I decided not to tell the children the truth. He didn’t want to lose their love, and I was too tired to fight. Better they hate me than know that their father almost killed their brother.

Strangely enough, Everett did quit drinking. He opened a small auto repair shop and got his life back on track. We saw each other occasionally—at Felen’s driving school graduation, at Tabitha’s wedding to Neil Pierce, at our grandchildren’s christenings. Always polite, always distant. And now he was dead—and Tabitha wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.

I got up, went to the dresser, took out the black dress—the one I wore to my mother’s funeral three years ago. I shook it out, checked for stains, then hung it resolutely in the closet. On Friday at two sharp, I would be at St. James Church despite my daughter’s prohibition. I had to say goodbye to the man who’d been part of my life for thirty-nine years—as my husband and as my ex-husband. I had to put an end to this.

The gray sky over Riverside was overcast with clouds. Nature seemed to have decided to match the occasion. I parked my well-worn Ford a block away from St. James Church, adjusted my old-fashioned hat with a veil—bought for my mother-in-law’s funeral—and slowly walked toward the church, each step difficult, as if my ankles were entangled in invisible roots.

There were more people than I had expected. Everett always had a way with people. When he was sober, he was the life of the party, the kind of person who made everyone feel special. I saw his former co-workers, customers from his auto repair shop, and neighbors from Elm Street. Mr. Oliver, the owner of the hardware store, nodded to me from afar but didn’t come over. Everyone in Riverside knew the story of our divorce, even if they didn’t know the real reasons.

I slipped into the church after the service had already begun and took a seat in the very back row, partially hidden by a massive column. From there, I could see the whole family sitting in the front rows. Tabitha, dressed all in black, her back perfectly straight. Next to her, her husband Neil, his arm around her shoulder in a gesture of support. My grandchildren, Corey and Lane, sat on the other side of their mother. Felen sat a little apart, alone, slumped over and staring at the floor. My youngest child, always lonely, always out of place.

The priest spoke of Everett in superlatives—a loving father, a devoted friend, a man who had conquered his demons and found a path to redemption. I felt no bitterness as I listened. Everett had truly changed after our divorce. He quit drinking, got his business back on track, and became a better grandfather to Corey and Lane than he had been a father to his own children. Maybe that blow to the head with a lamp fifteen years ago had awakened something in him. It’s just a shame it was too late for us.

Tabitha stood up to deliver the eulogy. At forty-two, she looked older. Her face was gaunt, and deep wrinkles had formed between her eyebrows from constant dissatisfaction with life. She had always been too serious, too demanding of herself and those around her. As a child, I tried to teach her to enjoy the little things, but she always looked at me as if I were suggesting something shameful.

“My father,” Tabitha began in a trembling voice, “was the strongest man I ever knew. He faced difficulties, but he always rose above them. He always took care of his family.” She faltered, glancing quickly at Felen. “Even when not everyone appreciated his sacrifices, he taught me resilience, taught me never to give up.”

I listened as my daughter painted a picture of her father as a hero, leaving out all the dark parts of his story. It had always been that way. She only saw what she wanted to see.

After Tabitha spoke, Everett’s old friend, Clem Hayes, took the floor. They had worked together as drivers—and drank together on the weekends. After the accident, when Everett started drinking, Clem was the only one who kept in touch with him.

“Ever wasn’t a saint,” Clem said, drawing a few surprise looks. “He made mistakes like all of us, but he spent the last fifteen years of his life trying to make up for them. He quit drinking. He started over. I’m proud to have been his friend until the end.”

I saw Tabitha’s shoulders tense. She hated any mention of her father’s drinking. In her version of reality, he was just letting off steam after a hard day’s work.

After the service, the procession moved to the cemetery. I stayed behind, keeping my distance. At the cemetery, I stood by the trees in the distance, watching as the coffin containing the body of the man who had once been the center of my universe was lowered into the ground.

My gaze returned to Felen. My boy, now a thirty-eight-year-old man, stood slumped as if carrying an invisible weight on his shoulders. He had always been like that. Ever since Everett had nearly strangled him, something in him had broken, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fix it. Felen worked as a school bus driver—a quiet, stable job with little contact with people. He had never been married and lived alone in a small apartment on the outskirts of Riverside. He called me once a week and came over for dinner once a month. Our conversations were always about the weather, his job, my garden—never about the past, never about Everett.

Standing next to Felen was my granddaughter Lane—a sixteen-year-old carbon copy of Tabitha in her youth, but with a gentleness her mother never possessed. She held her uncle’s hand, glancing at him anxiously from time to time. Lane had always been sensitive to other people’s pain, even as a child. I remembered when she was five and brought me a bouquet of wildflowers when I was lying down with a migraine. Corey stood on the other side of his mother. He had already noticed me and nodded slightly but didn’t dare come over, afraid of Tabitha’s anger. My eldest grandson grew up to be a kind, open young man—in spite of, not because of, his mother’s upbringing. Often, when Tabitha forbade him to visit me, he came anyway, “accidentally” finding himself nearby, helping with heavy bags from the store, fixing a leaky faucet.

The ceremony ended. People began to disperse, many heading toward Tabitha and Felen to offer their condolences. I was about to slip away unnoticed when I suddenly heard a shout.

“You!” Tabitha’s voice cut through the cemetery silence. “How dare you come here?”

She walked toward me across the lawn, her heels sinking into the soft ground, but she didn’t seem to notice—she was focused on her anger. All heads turned in our direction.

“I forbade you,” Tabitha continued to shout, coming closer. “You have no place here.”

I stood motionless, looking at my daughter. Over the years, I had grown accustomed to her anger, to her unfair accusations. But a public scene at a funeral was something new—even for Tabitha.

“I came to say goodbye to your father,” I said quietly. “We were part of each other’s lives for many years.”

“Part of his life?” Tabitha laughed, but there was no joy in her laughter—only bitterness. “You ruined his life. You left him when he needed you most. He drank because of you—because of your coldness. And then when he finally started to get his life back, you filed for divorce.”

I saw Felen move toward us, but he stopped halfway, not daring to intervene. My son always avoided conflict—even when he needed to stand up for himself.

“That’s not true, Tabitha,” I tried to say calmly, though I was seething inside at the unfairness of the accusations. “The history of our marriage is more complicated than you think.”

“Oh, I know that history very well,” Tabitha almost shouted. “Dad told me everything—how you criticized him, humiliated him, made him feel like a failure, how you always thought you were better than him because you were making money while he was trying to find himself.”

I saw the looks on the faces of those around us—a mixture of curiosity and awkwardness. Corey looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. Lane stared at us with wide eyes, her face pale. I had never thought Everett would turn the children against me by distorting the truth. But why should I be surprised? He had always been a master at shifting blame.

“Go away,” Tabitha said, pointing to the cemetery gate. “You have no right to be here. You haven’t been his wife for the last fifteen years. You gave up that right when you left him.”

“Mrs. Windham.” A voice suddenly rang out behind me.

I turned and saw an elderly man in a formal suit—the same lawyer who had called me with the sad news.

“Mr. Pallister,” I nodded. “What are you doing here?”

“Why are you talking to her?” Tabitha turned her anger on the lawyer.

Hart Pallister was as unruffled as a man accustomed to emotional scenes. “Mrs. Pierce,” he said to Tabitha, using her married name, “your father wanted Mrs. Windham to be present at the reading of the will.”

“What?” Tabitha looked as if she had been struck. “That’s impossible. Why would he do that? They were divorced.”

“Nevertheless, it is his express wish.” Pallister turned to me. “Mrs. Windham, the reading of the will will take place in my office in an hour. Will you be able to attend?”

I nodded, unable to speak. Everett wanted me to be there. Why? We hadn’t spoken in years, except for the occasional family gathering where we exchanged pleasantries.

“This must be some kind of mistake,” Tabitha insisted. “Dad would never have wanted this.”

“I assure you, there is no mistake,” Pallister replied calmly. “I have written instructions from Mr. Windham, which I received when I drew up his last will and testament three months ago.”

“Three months ago?” Tabitha frowned. “He didn’t say anything about a new will.”

“That was his right,” the lawyer remarked.

I stood there feeling like a character in some strange play. Everett had changed his will shortly before his death and wanted me to be present when it was read. It didn’t make sense—unless… unless he had finally decided to tell the truth about our divorce.

“I’ll be at your office, Mr. Pallister,” I said, trying not to look at my daughter’s face, which had turned pale with anger.

“Excellent.” The lawyer nodded. “The address is twenty-three Maple Avenue, second floor. I’ll see you at four.” He turned and walked away, leaving Tabitha and me facing each other.

“Whatever he left you, I’m going to contest the will,” she hissed. “You won’t get a penny of my father’s money.”

“I didn’t come for the money, Tabitha,” I replied wearily. “I came to say goodbye to a man who was part of my life for thirty-nine years.”

“He hated you,” Tabitha said with such conviction that I couldn’t bring myself to argue. “You broke him.”

“Think what you want,” I said, turning to leave. My back ached from standing so long, and I wanted to sit down and drink a cup of strong tea with a dash of brandy—a little indulgence I allowed myself on particularly difficult days.

“He asked me to give this to you,” Felen said suddenly, appearing beside me. He handed me a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Two weeks ago. He said you’d understand.”

I took the package, surprised that Felen had been in contact with his father in the last days of his life. My son had avoided Everett for years, as far as I knew.

“Thank you.” I wanted to say something else, but Tabitha was already pulling her brother away.

“Don’t talk to her,” she demanded. “Have you forgotten what she did?”

Felen let himself be led away, casting a last glance at me—a mixture of regret and something else I couldn’t quite place.

I slowly made my way to the cemetery exit, feeling the stares of the people seeing me off. Over the years of living in a small town, I had grown accustomed to gossip—to my story being retold over coffee at Millie’s, in line at the supermarket, at parent-teacher conferences at school. The story of a woman who left her husband when he was struggling with alcoholism, leaving him alone during the most difficult period of his life. If only they knew the truth.

I walked out of the cemetery gates and headed for my car, clutching the small bundle from Everett tightly. Whatever it was, it might explain why he wanted me at the reading of his will—why, now, after all these years of silence, he had decided to change things. Ahead of me lay the lawyer’s office—and perhaps answers to questions that had tormented me for fifteen years.

G. Pallister’s office was in an old brick building on Maple Avenue, one of the few streets in Riverside that had retained its historic appearance. I climbed the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, trying to ignore the pain in my knees. Age spares no one, especially those who have spent most of their lives on their feet behind a counter.

The door, with its frosted glass and golden letters spelling out G. PALLISTER, ATTORNEY AT LAW, was ajar. I knocked politely and entered. Tabitha, her husband Neil, Felen, and my grandchildren, Corey and Lane, were already gathered in the reception room with its heavy dark cabinets and brown leather chairs. When I entered, Tabitha turned away pointedly. Neil nodded with polite indifference, and Corey smiled timidly. Felen, as usual, avoided looking me in the eye but muttered, “Mom,” in greeting. Lane came over and hugged me hastily before Tabitha could stop her.

Garr Pallister emerged from the inner office just as I settled into a chair as far away from Tabitha as possible. He was a stocky man of about seventy-five with sparse gray hair and piercing eyes behind old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses.

“Thank you all for your punctuality,” he said, glancing around at us. “Please follow me to my office.”

We followed him into a spacious room with a massive desk covered with folders and legal documents. The walls were hung with diplomas and family photographs. Outside the window, the tops of maple trees were already tinged with the first yellow of autumn.

“Before we begin,” Pallister said as he sat and folded his hands in front of him, “I must tell you that Everett Windham was my client for over thirty years. I drew up his marriage contract when he married you, Mrs. Windham, handled the paperwork for the purchase of your first home on Elm Street, and handled your divorce fifteen years ago.” He paused and took a folder out of his desk drawer. “Everett’s last will and testament was drawn up three months ago, when he learned of his heart problems. He was of sound mind and memory, as can be attested to by the two witnesses who signed the document.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” Tabitha said impatiently, tapping her foot on the floor. “We’ve all had a difficult day.”

“Of course,” Pallister nodded. “However, before I read the will, Mr. Windham left an envelope that he asked to be opened in the presence of all of you.”

The lawyer took a sealed cream-colored envelope out of the folder. I recognized Everett’s handwriting on the front—sharp, with a strong slant to the right. He always wrote as if he were in a hurry to get his thoughts down before they slipped away.

“To be opened and read aloud in the presence of the entire family,” Pallister read the inscription. He carefully opened the envelope with a stationery knife and took out several sheets of paper, covered in the same distinctive handwriting. He cleared his throat and began to read.

“If you are hearing this, then I am no longer here. I hope the funeral was not too somber. I never liked funeral ceremonies. The time has come to tell you the truth that I have hidden for too long. The truth about why Merl and I divorced fifteen years ago.

“Tabitha. Felen. All these years you believed that your mother abandoned me when I needed her most—that she couldn’t stand my drinking and left, destroying our family. That is a lie. A lie I made up and perpetuated because I was too proud and too cowardly to admit the truth.

“The truth is that on that last night, I attacked Felen in a drunken rage. I strangled my own son, and if it hadn’t been for Merl hitting me over the head with a lamp, I might have killed him.

“Felen, I don’t know if you remember this. You were in shock, and then your mother and I decided not to tell you the truth so as not to traumatize you even more. It was my idea. I didn’t want you to know what a monster I was.

“After that incident, Merl gave me an ultimatum. Either I get treatment for my alcoholism or she files for divorce and reports me to the police. I agreed to get treatment—not so much out of fear of the law, but because I finally saw what I had become. We divorced because of me. Merl really couldn’t live with me after what I did. And I don’t blame her. Any normal person would have done the same.

“All these years, I let you—especially you, Tabitha—blame your mother for the breakup of our family. I didn’t correct you when you said she abandoned me in my time of need. In fact, Merl protected you from me throughout our marriage—from my drunken escapades, from my failures, from my irresponsibility. She worked two jobs to pay the bills while I drank away our money. She made time to be at your school events while I slept off my hangovers. She was the backbone of our family, and I was the one who destroyed it.

“After the divorce, I did quit drinking. I opened an auto repair shop and got my life back on track, but the damage was already done. I know I can’t fix the past. I can’t give Merl back the years she spent putting up with me. I can’t give you back a normal childhood without my drinking and anger. I can’t erase that night when I almost killed my own son. But I can at least tell the truth now and try to make amends to Merl.

“Tabitha, I know how much you looked up to me and how you blamed your mother for our divorce. I should have stopped you, but I enjoyed your adoration, even if it was based on lies. It was cowardly of me.

“Felen, I know that after that night, you never truly trusted me again. You were right. Corey, Lane, you are my favorite grandchildren. I hope you will treat your grandmother with the respect she deserves. She is much stronger than any of us.

“Merl, I know there are no words that can undo what I’ve done. But I hope this confession will help restore your reputation in the eyes of our children. You deserve it. And finally, I’m not asking for forgiveness because I know some things are unforgivable. I just want the truth to finally be told.

“Everett Windham.”

A dead silence hung in the office. I stared at my hands, unable to look up. Everett’s letter shook me to my core. I never expected him to admit his guilt—especially not publicly in front of the children.

Tabitha sat motionless, her face so pale the freckles on her nose looked like dark spots. Felen slumped in his chair, covering his face with his hands. Corey and Lane looked at each other with confused expressions. They knew too little about our family history to fully understand the significance of their grandfather’s confession.

“It’s a lie,” Tabitha finally said, her voice breaking. “Dad would never have written that. It’s a forgery.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Pierce,” Pallister replied calmly, “this is your father’s genuine letter. I witnessed him writing it.”

“He couldn’t have.” Tabitha shook her head. “He would never have attacked Felen. Never.”

“It’s true, Tab,” Felen said unexpectedly, without raising his head. “I remember that evening. Not everything. But enough. Dad was furious. I said something. I don’t remember what. He grabbed me by the throat.”

“No.” Tabitha jumped to her feet. “You just believe those lies. Mom always turned you against Dad. She always tried to convince us that he was a monster.”

“I never did that, Tabitha,” I said quietly. “On the contrary, I tried to make you love your father despite his problems.”

“Liar,” Tabitha shouted, pointing her finger at me. “You always hated him. You always thought he wasn’t good enough for you with his job as a truck driver. And now that he’s gone, you’re trying to discredit his memory.”

“Mrs. Pierce,” Pallister interjected, “I understand that this is a shock for you, but insults won’t help resolve the situation. I suggest we continue with the will, and you can discuss personal matters later in private.”

Tabitha clenched her fists but sank back into her chair, glaring at me with hatred.

“Now,” the lawyer said, returning to the folder of documents, “let’s move on to the will itself.” He took out several pages stapled together and put on his glasses.

“I, Everett James Windham, being of sound mind and memory, hereby set forth my last will and testament regarding the disposition of my property after my death.

“First, my house at twenty-one Maple Street in Riverside, together with all the property therein, I bequeath to my son, Felen Windham.

“Second, I bequeath my auto repair shop, Reliable Wheels, located at seven Industrial Road, including all equipment, inventory, and business goodwill, to my former wife, Merl Thatcher Windham. I realize that Merl has no experience in running an auto repair shop, so I suggest that she either sell the business or hire a manager to run it. My shop brings in a steady income, and I would like Merl to have financial security in her old age.

“Third, all my savings and investments, totaling approximately two hundred fifty thousand dollars, shall be distributed as follows: one hundred thousand dollars to my ex-wife, Merl Thatcher Windham; fifty thousand dollars each to my grandchildren, Corey Pierce and Lane Pierce, for their education or other needs; fifty thousand dollars to my son, Felen Windham.

“Fourth, I bequeath my collection of antique tools to my grandson, Corey Pierce, on the condition that he will not sell them but will keep them as a family heirloom.

“Fifth, I bequeath my 1967 Chevrolet Impala to my granddaughter, Lane Pierce, when she reaches the age of eighteen.

“As for my daughter, Tabitha Pierce, I leave her only a symbolic sum of one dollar. This is not because I do not love her, but because I know that Tabitha and her husband are financially secure and, more importantly, because I want her to finally realize how unfair she has been to her mother all these years. This may be cruel of me, but I hope it will cause her to reconsider her views.

“I appoint Hart Pallister as the executor of this will and entrust him with seeing that all its provisions are carried out.

“Everett James Windham.”

Everett’s will came as a shock to all of us. A workshop—and a hundred thousand dollars. I had no idea he had that kind of money. The auto repair shop he opened after our divorce was obviously more successful than I had thought.

Tabitha sat frozen like a statue. Her husband, Neil, put his hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t even notice. Her world was falling apart before her eyes—not only because her father had effectively disinherited her, but because the whole story she had created about her parents had turned out to be a lie.

“This is impossible,” she finally said. “Dad would never have done this. He would never have left everything to her.” She pointed at me as if I were an insect.

“The document is completely legal, Mrs. Pierce,” Pallister replied calmly. “Your father was of sound mind when he drew it up. You do, of course, have the right to contest the will in court, but I must warn you that the chances of success are minimal.”

“You’re in cahoots with her,” Tabitha suddenly accused the lawyer. “She must have influenced you somehow—made you forge the will.”

“Tabitha,” Neil exclaimed, clearly shocked by the accusation. “Calm down. You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I understand perfectly well.” Tabitha jumped to her feet. “She always manipulated everyone. She always portrayed herself as the victim. And now she’s even managed to turn Dad against me after his death.”

I sat silently, knowing that anything I said now would only add fuel to the fire. Years of resentment and hatred could not be dispelled by a single letter or will, no matter how shocking.

Felen was silent, too, but his face showed relief, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps he had always remembered that evening more clearly than he’d said.

“I will contest this will,” Tabitha declared, turning to the lawyer. “I will hire the best lawyers. I will prove that she influenced him in some way—perhaps even threatened him.”

“You are free to do as you see fit, Mrs. Pierce,” Pallister replied calmly. “But I advise you to think carefully. The trial will be long, expensive, and most likely fruitless for you. Moreover, it will make public a family history that your father would have preferred to keep private.”

Tabitha looked as if she were about to explode. Her face flushed, her eyes filled with tears—not of sadness, but of rage.

“Let’s go, Neil,” she said, grabbing her purse. “I can’t stay here any longer.” She turned to her children. “Corey. Lane. We’re leaving.”

Corey hesitated, glancing from his mother to me. “Mom, maybe we should talk about this—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Tabitha snapped. “It’s all lies. Let’s go.”

“I’m staying,” Lane said unexpectedly, her voice firm. At sixteen, she suddenly looked older than her mother. “I want to talk to Grandma.”

“Me too,” Corey added, straightening up.

“Traitors.” Tabitha looked at them with such disappointment that I felt a pang of sympathy for her despite all her accusations. “All of you. Let’s go, Neil. At least you’re on my side.”

Neil looked uncertain but followed his wife. At the door, Tabitha turned and took one last look at all of us—at the lawyer, at Felen, at her children left behind with me, and finally at me.

“I’ll prove this is a forgery,” she said. “I’ll prove you made him write it, and then everyone will know what you really are.”

With that, she left, slamming the door so hard that the glass in the bookcase rattled.

In the silence that followed, we all sat without looking at each other. Then Garr Pallister cleared his throat cautiously.

“I think that concludes the formalities,” he said. “I will prepare all the necessary documents for the transfer of property. Mrs. Windham, we will discuss the details of managing the auto repair shop with you shortly. Mr. Felen, I will contact you regarding the transfer of the house. As for Miss Lane and Mr. Corey, their shares will be placed in a trust fund until they reach the age of majority.”

Everyone nodded, still stunned by what had happened.

“If you have no further questions,” the lawyer continued, “I suggest you take some time to think about everything. Today’s events have been emotional for all of you.”

“I just want to ask,” I said, speaking for the first time in a long while, “did Everett really know about his heart problems? Is that why he changed his will?”

“Yes,” Pallister nodded. “The doctors told him he had six months to live without surgery. He refused the operation—thought it was too risky at his age. He decided it was time to put his affairs in order.”

I felt a bitterness at the thought that Everett had known he was dying and hadn’t told any of us. He had chosen to face it alone, just as he had lived the last few years.

“Thank you, Mr. Pallister,” I said, standing up, my back aching. “For everything.”

The lawyer bowed his head, sympathy flashing in his eyes behind his glasses. “Don’t thank me, Mrs. Windham. I’m only doing what your late husband wanted.”

We left the office: me, Felen, Corey, and Lane. In the reception area, Felen shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Mom,” he began, “I need to talk to you about that night… about what happened afterward.”

“Of course, dear.” I touched his hand. “When you’re ready. Maybe tomorrow?”

He looked embarrassed, like a little boy. “Can I come over to your place?”

“Sure.” I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t obey me. “I’ll be waiting.”

The house on Maple Street didn’t look at all like I remembered it. Everett had obviously invested in renovations: a new roof, fresh paint, a well-manicured lawn. Felen’s car, a beat-up Ford, was parked at the curb. I noticed Tabitha’s SUV nearby—so she had decided to come after all.

I hesitated at the door, gathering my courage. Felen had called that morning and said he wanted to meet at his father’s house—now his house, according to the will. He said Tabitha would be there, that he had convinced her to listen to what I had to say. I wasn’t sure anything good would come of it, but I knew the truth had to be told at last.

Felen opened the door without waiting for me to ring the bell. He had always been a sensitive boy, and even now, at thirty-eight, he had retained that trait—the ability to sense when someone needed support.

“Mom,” he said awkwardly, hugging me and stepping aside to let me in. “Tabitha’s in the living room, and she’s not in the best mood.”

“I didn’t expect it to be easy,” I said, taking off my light raincoat. Autumn in Riverside was always cool, especially in the evenings.

The living room looked completely different: new furniture, light-colored walls instead of the dark green that Everett had loved so much. On the mantelpiece were framed photographs—Felen at his graduation, Tabitha in her wedding dress, the grandchildren at a Christmas party. Surprisingly, I noticed a photo of myself among them—an old picture of Everett and me standing next to the Impala, young and smiling. That was before the children were born, before the accident, before everything went wrong.

Tabitha sat in the armchair by the window, straight as a string, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t even turn her head when I came in. Corey sat on the sofa, nervously fingering the rosary beads I had given him last Christmas. Lane was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She looked so young—and yet so grown up.

“I’m here,” I said, though it was obvious. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“I didn’t agree,” Tabitha replied sharply, without looking at me. “Felen insisted.”

“Not your side, Tab,” Felen corrected her gently. “The truth.” He gestured for me to sit in the chair opposite Tabitha. Between us was a low coffee table with cups set out on it. Someone—most likely Lane—had made tea.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admitted, smoothing my skirt over my knees.

“With the truth,” Felen said, sinking onto the sofa next to Corey. “The whole family is here. It’s time to hear what really happened fifteen years ago.”

I took a deep breath. For years, I had kept silent. For years, I had allowed Tabitha to blame me for everything that had gone wrong in our family. Maybe it was my mistake to agree with Everett to hide the truth—to protect his authority in the eyes of the children. But you can’t change the past; you can only try to fix the present.

“You know your father started drinking after the accident,” I began—the one where someone died in the other car. “Everett wasn’t at fault. The road was slippery. Witnesses confirmed that he did everything he could to avoid the collision, but he couldn’t shake the guilt.”

I remembered that day so clearly—the call from the police, the trip to the hospital, Everett with his head bandaged and a blank stare, repeating the same phrase over and over: “He had children in the car. They saw their father die.”

“At first, he drank a little on weekends,” I continued. “Then more and more. He started missing work, got demoted, transferred to local routes. Money became a problem.”

“You always bring it back to money,” Tabitha snorted contemptuously. “That wasn’t the point. Dad felt like you didn’t support him.”

“I supported him as best I could,” I replied calmly. “I went with him to therapy. Tried to get him to join a support group for people with alcohol addiction. I worked extra shifts at the store to pay the bills. I tried to shield you from his episodes.”

“Episodes?” Tabitha rolled her eyes. “You always talked about it like Dad was sick. He was just relaxing after work.”

“No, Tab,” Felen said unexpectedly firmly. “It wasn’t relaxing. Dad drank himself into a stupor. He broke dishes. He yelled—at Mom. Sometimes at us.”

“He never yelled at me,” Tabitha insisted.

“Because Mom made sure you didn’t see it,” Felen said, shaking his head. “She sent you to your friends when she saw Dad starting a binge. Remember how often you stayed at Janie’s or Beth’s? There was a reason for that.”

Tabitha said nothing, but I saw her lips tremble. Deep down, she must have remembered the unexpected sleepovers at her friends’ houses, the inexplicable tension in the house, the strange bruises on my arms I always explained away as clumsiness.

“The last year before the divorce was the hardest,” I said, shifting my gaze from Tabitha to Felen. “Everett finally lost his job as a driver. He sat at home and drank. I worked two jobs, came home exhausted, and—” I faltered, remembering the endless arguments, the broken bottles, Felen crying, hiding in his room.

“I remember,” Felen said quietly. “You always checked on me before bed. Even if you came home after midnight, you sat next to me, held my hand.”

I nodded, feeling a lump rise in my throat. Those quiet moments with my son were the only light in the darkness of those years.

“And then—” I took a deep breath. “There was that last evening.”

Felen tensed, his hands clenching into fists. He remembered more than he had said before—I was sure of it.

“What happened?” Corey asked, speaking for the first time since we had arrived. “Did Grandpa really attack Dad?”

I looked at Felen, silently asking permission to continue. He nodded, not looking up.

“Felen was twenty-three at the time,” I began. “He had just returned from college, having dropped out after his freshman year. Everett was disappointed. He had high hopes for his son. He wanted Felen to get the education he never had.”

“Dad meant well,” Tabitha interjected. “He always said that education was the key to a better life.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But he expressed his disappointment inappropriately.”

“He called me a useless failure,” Felen said suddenly, his voice hollow. “Every time he got drunk, he said I was a disgrace to the family. That he wished he’d only had a daughter.”

Tabitha flinched as if she’d been struck. She didn’t know that. By then, she had already moved out—was working in the accounting department of a supermarket and dating Neil.

“That evening,” Felen continued, now ready to tell the story himself, “I came home late. I’d been at a job interview at a driving school, hoping to become an instructor. Dad was already drunk. He asked me where I’d been. I told him. He laughed. He said that only losers go to driving schools, that I’d never amount to anything.”

Felen paused, his voice trembling. “I replied that it was better to be a driving instructor than a drunken loser who abused his own family.”

Lane gasped quietly. Corey put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder.

“He went berserk,” Felen said, staring at the floor. “He lunged at me across the room, knocked me down, started choking me. I tried to push him off, but he was stronger—and so angry. His eyes… I’ve never seen such hatred.”

“I heard the noise,” I said when Felen fell silent, unable to continue. “I ran into the room. I saw Everett choking Felen, pressing him against the wall. He was already turning blue, gasping for air. I screamed, tried to pull Everett away, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Then I grabbed the table lamp and hit him on the head.”

“You hit him?” Tabitha stared at me, eyes wide.

“Yes.” I didn’t look away. “And I would do it again. He was killing our son, Tabitha. I wasn’t going to stand there and watch.”

There was silence—broken only by the ticking of the wall clock, the same one that had hung here during my marriage. It was strange that Everett had kept it.

“What happened next?” Lane asked quietly, looking from me to her uncle.

“Everett lost consciousness,” I said. “Felen could barely breathe. I wanted to call the police—an ambulance—”

“But I asked her not to,” Felen finished. “I didn’t want Dad to be arrested. I didn’t want everyone in town to find out.”

“Felen and I agreed,” I continued. “No police—but Everett had to get treatment for alcoholism. When he came to, I gave him an ultimatum. Either he goes to rehab or I file for divorce and report him for assaulting his son.”

“He agreed to go to rehab,” Felen said. “He admitted he’d gone too far. He begged for forgiveness. He cried on his knees. I’d never seen my father so broken.”

“But you got divorced anyway,” Tabitha said—her voice no longer confident.

“Yes,” I nodded. “Everett did go to treatment, but our marriage was beyond repair. Too much had happened. Too much pain, fear, mistrust.”

“And then you decided to hide it all from me,” Tabitha said, crossing her arms. Her posture looked more defensive than aggressive now.

“It was Dad’s idea,” Felen said. “He didn’t want you to know what a monster he was that night. He was afraid of losing your love.”

“And you?” Tabitha turned to me. “Why did you agree to keep quiet?”

I sighed, feeling the weight of all those years I had carried that burden. “Because you adored your father, Tabitha. You always did. You were an adult, living your own life. I didn’t see any point in destroying your image of him.” I spread my hands. “Then it was just too late. You were so sure that I was to blame for everything that anything I said would have sounded like excuses.”

“You let me hate you all these years,” Tabitha said, her voice tinged with bewilderment.

“You’re my daughter, Tabitha,” I said simply. “I love you no matter what. And if it was easier for you to blame me than to see the truth about your father, I could accept that.”

“Grandpa really did change after treatment,” Corey remarked. “He never drank around us. He was always collected. But sometimes, when he talked about you, Grandma, there was such longing in his voice. I never understood that before.”

“He really did change,” Felen agreed. “He quit drinking completely, started a business, became a better grandfather than he was a father. But what happened that night—I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t truly forgive.”

“And I still can’t believe it,” Tabitha said, shaking her head. “The letter, the will, your stories—this isn’t the Dad I knew.”

“You knew him sober,” I said gently. “Sober Everett and drunk Everett were two different people.”

“Why didn’t he tell me anything?” Tabitha’s eyes filled with tears. “All these years I blamed you. I said terrible things—and he just let me.”

“He was afraid,” Felen said. “Afraid of losing your love. It was easier to let you blame your mother than to admit his own mistakes.”

Silence fell. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts. Outside, it was beginning to get dark. Autumn twilight fell early. Someone—I think it was Lane—stood and turned on the lamp. Soft light spread across the room, creating an almost cozy atmosphere that contrasted strangely with the heaviness of our conversation.

“Mom,” Tabitha finally spoke, her voice uncertain—so unlike my always decisive daughter. “I don’t know what to say. All these years, I was so sure.”

“You believed what you wanted to believe,” I said. I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my voice. “It was easier to think your mother was a cold, selfish woman who abandoned her loving husband than to admit your beloved father was an alcoholic who almost killed your brother.”

“I just—” Tabitha faltered. “I can’t accept all this at once. I can’t erase everything I’ve believed for fifteen years.”

“No one’s asking you to do that right away,” Felen said. “But maybe you can finally see your mother in a different light—stop blaming her for everything.”

Tabitha didn’t answer, just turned toward the window. In her profile, illuminated by the soft light of the lamp, I suddenly saw the little girl who used to climb into my lap with a book, asked me to braid her hair, asked when Dad was coming home from his route. My stubborn, proud daughter—so much like me.

“I want you to leave,” Tabitha said suddenly, without turning around. “That’s it. I need to be alone.”

“Tabitha—”

“Please.” Her voice trembled. “I need to think about everything.”

We looked at one another—Felen, Corey, Lane, and me. No one wanted to leave Tabitha alone in this state, but there was no point in pressuring her now.

“Okay,” I said, getting up from the chair first. “We’ll go. But, Tabitha, if you want to talk anytime, I’ll be happy to listen. My door is always open for you.”

She didn’t answer, continuing to stare out the window as if she could find answers in the gathering darkness.

We left Everett’s house—now Felen’s—into the cool evening. The sky was studded with stars, rare above our small town with its streetlights and neon signs.

“I’ll drive you home, Mom,” Felen said, opening the door of his Ford.

“Lane and I are going to Grandpa’s workshop,” added Corey. “I want to show her the Impala.”

I smiled as I looked at my grandchildren. They seemed so grown up, so wise for their age.

“Thank you,” I said, “for listening—for believing.”

“We always knew you couldn’t be the way Mom described you,” Lane said. “Seriously. You were always kind to us, even when Mom wouldn’t let us see you.”

“And we always broke the rule,” Corey grinned. In that grin, I saw a glimpse of the young Everett I had fallen in love with so long ago.

As Felen pulled out of the driveway, I turned back to look at the house. Tabitha’s silhouette was still visible in the living room window, motionless like a statue. My daughter—my proud, stubborn daughter—who had always been convinced she knew the whole truth about her family.

“Do you think she’ll be able to accept it?” Felen asked, catching my eye.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “Tabitha has always seen the world in black and white. It will be difficult for her to admit she’s been wrong all these years.”

“What if she can’t?” he asked quietly. “What if she continues to blame you?”

I sighed, feeling the fatigue of a long day—of many long years. “Then I’ll accept it,” I said. “Just as I’ve accepted it for the past fifteen years. She’s my daughter, Felen. I won’t stop loving her, even if she never changes her mind about me.”

Felen nodded, his eyes fixed on the road. We drove in silence through the quiet streets of Riverside, past familiar houses, shops, parks—places where my whole life had been. The town had known me as Mrs. Windham, then as the former Mrs. Windham—the woman who left her alcoholic husband. I wondered if anything would change now that the truth was finally out—or would our family secrets remain just that, known only to us.

When we pulled up to my little house on the outskirts of town, I suddenly remembered the bundle Felen had given me at the cemetery. In the commotion, I had completely forgotten about it.

“Felen,” I said, “that bundle from your father. Do you know what’s in it?”

He shook his head. “No. My father just asked me to give it to you if anything happened to him. He said you’d understand.”

I nodded, thinking about the small package in my bag. Another secret. Another message from a man who had been part of my life for so long—and in such a complicated way.

“Mom,” Felen turned to me as we stopped in front of my house, “I want you to know I’ve always remembered that night. Not all the details, but enough. I knew you saved my life. And I’m sorry I didn’t have the strength to tell Tabitha the truth sooner. Maybe if I had—”

“Don’t blame yourself.” I touched his hand. “You were a victim in that situation too, and you had every right to defend yourself as best you could.”

He nodded, but I could see the guilt still weighed on him. My boy always took too much on himself.

“Thanks for driving me,” I said, opening the door. “And thank you for today—for finally deciding to tell the truth.”

“It’s the least I could do,” he replied. “After everything you’ve done for us.”

I got out of the car, waved goodbye, and headed for the house. Behind me, I heard Felen’s Ford drive away. I opened the door and entered the quiet, dark rooms—my home, my refuge all these years. Turning on the light in the living room, I took the small package from my bag. Slowly, I unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was a small velvet box and an envelope.

I opened the box first. On a velvet cushion lay the ring Everett had given me on our wedding day—a simple gold band with a small diamond. I had given it back to him on the day we divorced. And now it was mine again.

With trembling hands, I opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of paper. It was Everett’s handwriting—the same sharp slant, the same angles of the letters.

“Merl, if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. The doctors say my heart could stop at any moment. Funny how life puts things in their place. I almost killed our son in a drunken stupor, and now I’m dying of a heart attack. Poetic justice, don’t you think?

“I’m returning this ring to you not because I hope for forgiveness or reconciliation. It’s too late for that, and we both know it. I’m returning it because it always belonged to you—the only woman I ever loved, despite all the pain I caused you.

“By the time you read this letter, you’ll already know the truth about our divorce. I made sure of that in my will. I hope this helps Tabitha finally see you in your true light. I’m sorry, Merl. Not for that night—I know that’s impossible to forgive. I’m sorry for all the years of silence that followed, for letting you carry that burden alone. Cowardice is my greatest sin, and I will take it with me to my grave.

“Live long, Merl. Live happily. You deserve it more than anyone.

“Everett.”

Three months isn’t a long time in the grand scheme of a life, but sometimes it’s enough to change everything.

Winter in Riverside was snowy, the city covered in a white blanket that hid the unsightly gray of late autumn. I’d always loved winter. It gives the illusion of a new beginning, a clean slate.

Everett’s inheritance changed my life more than I expected. It wasn’t so much the money—though one hundred thousand dollars and an auto repair shop did improve my financial situation considerably—as the truth that finally came out. A heavy burden I had carried for fifteen years had suddenly disappeared.

I decided not to sell the auto repair shop, as Everett had suggested. Instead, I hired Everett’s former assistant, Dexter Holt, as the manager. He had worked with my ex-husband since the shop opened and knew the business like the back of his hand. We made an agreement: Dexter would run the business, receive a good salary and a percentage of the profits, and I would remain the owner. It worked for both of us.

I spent part of my inheritance on helping Felen and my grandchildren. Felen had long dreamed of going back to college and getting a degree in education. He had discovered that he truly loved working with children while driving a school bus. Now he had the opportunity. I helped pay for Corey’s college tuition; he was studying engineering and showed great promise. Lane was still in school, but I opened a savings account for her future education.

All this time, Tabitha kept to herself. After that night at Everett’s house when we told her the truth, she seemed to shut down. Felen said she took a leave of absence from work and spent most of her time at home. She refused to talk about Everett’s letter or his will. She continued to interact with the children, but she became quieter and more pensive. Corey said that sometimes he found her looking at family albums, poring over old photographs for hours, as if trying to find answers to her questions.

I didn’t push her. I knew Tabitha needed time to process everything she had learned—to come to terms with a new reality in which her beloved father was not a flawless hero and her rejected mother was not a villain. It wasn’t easy for her—perhaps harder than it was for any of us.

Felen changed over those months. As if a long-held weight had been lifted, he became more open, started smiling, went to support group meetings for adult children of alcoholics. He started dating a librarian from the city library—a quiet woman named Audrey, with the same gentle manner he had. For the first time in a long time, I saw my son truly happy.

Corey and Lane became frequent visitors to my home. They would come over after school or on weekends, help with the garden, and talk about their lives. Lane found in me a grateful listener; I helped her with her history projects, which she was passionate about. Corey loved tinkering with the antique tools he had inherited from his grandfather. He restored them little by little, studied the history of each one, and sometimes shared his findings at the local history museum.

That evening in mid-February, I went to Felen’s house for a family dinner. He had recently finished renovating the kitchen in the house he had inherited from his father and wanted to celebrate with his family. I didn’t know Tabitha would be there. Perhaps Felen deliberately didn’t tell me, fearing I would decline the invitation.

When I entered the living room with a pie in my hands—apple and cinnamon, Felen’s favorite dessert since childhood—the first person I saw was Tabitha. She was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace with a cup of tea in her hands, looking paler and thinner than I remembered her. She looked up when I entered, and I froze—not knowing what to expect.

“Hello, Mom,” she said quietly, without her usual hostility, but without much warmth either.

“Hello, Tabitha,” I said, walking to the kitchen table and setting down the pie. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Felen insisted.” She smiled weakly at her brother, who was peeking out of the kitchen with a worried expression. “He said it was time for all of us to get together as a family.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. After so many years of mutual accusations and bitterness, it felt strange to just sit in the same room exchanging pleasantries as if nothing had happened.

Audrey, Felen’s new girlfriend, emerged from the kitchen with plates in her hands. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she announced with a soft smile. “Felen made lasagna from his grandmother’s recipe.”

I looked at my son in surprise. “You remember Mom’s recipe?”

“You wrote it down for me when I moved out with Dad,” Felen said, looking a little embarrassed. “I always kept it.”

That small gesture—that reminder that even in the hardest times the bond between us had not been completely broken—warmed my heart.

I helped Audrey set the table. Soon, Corey and Lane joined us, having come together. They had become friends over the past few months despite the age difference and often spent time together.

When we all sat down, there was an awkward pause. Usually, Tabitha dominated family dinners—loud, confident, always knowing what to talk about. Now she stared silently at her plate, as if unsure of her role in this new family dynamic.

“Maybe we should say a toast,” suggested Felen, pouring wine into glasses—nonalcoholic cider for me, knowing my attitude toward alcohol. “To new beginnings.”

We raised our glasses and said a quiet, “To new beginnings.” But the tension remained. Tabitha barely touched her wine, continuing to remain silent.

“How’s school, Corey?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

My grandson enthusiastically began talking about his latest college project and the professor who had offered him a summer internship at an engineering company. Lane teased her brother, saying he was turning into a real nerd. Felen and Audrey exchanged warm glances across the table. Only Tabitha remained aloof from the conversation—physically present but mentally far away.

After dinner, when Felen and Audrey were clearing the table and Corey and Lane had gone to the living room to play a board game, I found myself alone with Tabitha on the small glassed-in porch. She stood by the window, looking out at the snow-covered garden illuminated by moonlight.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I said, approaching her. “I’ve always loved winter evenings.”

“Dad loved them, too,” Tabitha replied quietly. “Remember how he used to clear the paths in the garden after it snowed? He always did it himself. Never asked the neighbor boy, like the others did.”

“I remember.” I smiled. “He said it was the best way to think. He’d go out early in the morning when everyone was still asleep.”

We stood silently, looking at the garden—keeping our distance, not so much physical as emotional.

“I checked the documents,” Tabitha said suddenly. “I consulted another lawyer. Everything is authentic—the will, the letter.” She paused. “And the medical records from the clinic where Dad was treated for alcoholism.”

I nodded, not surprised. Tabitha had always been meticulous—checking the facts before jumping to conclusions. I had been the same at her age, before years of marriage to Everett taught me to sometimes take things at face value just to survive.

“Are you angry with him?” I asked cautiously. “For hiding the truth from you?”

Tabitha shrugged, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. Sometimes—sometimes at you, for agreeing to keep quiet. Sometimes at myself, for being so blind that I couldn’t see the obvious.”

“You saw what you wanted to see,” I said gently. “We all do.”

“But you put up with my hatred—my accusations—for fifteen years,” she said bitterly. The bitterness was directed at herself, not me. “How could you?”

“You’re my daughter, Tabitha,” I replied simply. “And I knew how much you loved your father. Sometimes love means letting someone live with their illusions if those illusions make them happy.”

“What if those illusions hurt someone who’s innocent?” She finally turned to me, tears in her eyes. “Is that still love?”

I didn’t know how to answer. The question was more complicated than it seemed.

“Maybe I was wrong,” I admitted after a pause. “Maybe Everett and I should have told you the truth right away. But we did what we thought was right at the time—just like you did.”

Tabitha shook her head, disappointment in her eyes. “You’re always so rational—so calm. Even now, it’s as if nothing ever happened, as if fifteen years of hatred can just be erased.”

“They’re not erased, Tabitha,” I said, feeling my own bitterness rise in my throat. “I remember every time you turned away from me on the street. Every time you forbade me to see my grandchildren. Every accusation. But what’s the point of holding on to that pain? What’s the point of demanding an apology or punishment? It won’t bring back the lost years.”

“So you’re just forgiving me?” Her voice sounded incredulous, as if the very idea of forgiveness were incomprehensible to her.

“I don’t know if I’m forgiving you,” I replied honestly. “But I know I don’t want to spend the rest of my life clinging to resentment. I want to enjoy what I have now. Felen—who is finally happy. My grandchildren—who are back in my life. And you—if you’ll let me be part of your life again.”

Tabitha turned away, looking out the window again. “You ruined my memory of my father,” she said quietly, with sudden bitterness. “Now every time I think of him, I’ll remember that he was a monster.”

“He wasn’t a monster, Tabitha.” I shook my head. “He was a complicated man with deep problems—a man who made a terrible mistake but found the strength to change. Doesn’t that make his story even more meaningful?”

“You always find excuses.” Tabitha’s voice took on a familiar, hostile tone. “You always explain everything. But it’s not about explanations, Mom. It’s about the fact that you and Dad took away my normal family. You deprived me of the truth. You allowed me to live a lie all these years—and now you expect me to just accept it, to carry on as if nothing happened.”

I sighed—tired, not physically, but with that deep emotional exhaustion that builds up over years.

“I don’t expect anything, Tabitha. I just hope that with time you’ll be able to find—if not forgiveness—then at least understanding. That you’ll accept the past and move on.”

“And if I can’t?” She looked me straight in the eye, her gaze defiant. “If I can never forgive you or Dad for this lie?”

“Then that will be your choice,” I said, meeting her gaze calmly. “And I will accept it as I have accepted all your decisions, even those that hurt me—because love, Tabitha—true love—does not set conditions.”

She turned away, and I saw her shoulders tense—as if my words had struck her physically. But I knew my daughter. Behind that tension was not anger, but a struggle with herself—with her deeply held beliefs, with her pride.

“I have to go,” she said finally. “Tell Felen dinner was wonderful.”

Without waiting for my reply, she left the porch. I heard her say goodbye to her brother and his girlfriend, hug her children, and slam the front door. Soon, I heard the sound of a car driving away.

I remained at the window, watching the moonlight dance on the snow. My feelings were mixed: bitterness that Tabitha still couldn’t get over her resentment; relief that we had at least talked; and quiet joy that the family dinner had taken place despite the tension.

Felen came over and stood next to me. “Is she gone?” he asked, though the answer was obvious.

“Yes.” I smiled weakly. “She said dinner was wonderful.”

“Are you okay?” His voice sounded concerned.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, patting his arm. “Give her time, Felen. She’s always been stubborn—just like me at her age. She has to come to terms with it herself. No one can do it for her.”

“What if she never does?” His voice echoed Tabitha’s question, but with a different tone—not defiant, but concerned.

“Then we’ll accept it,” I said with a small shrug. “Sometimes the truth doesn’t lead to reconciliation. Sometimes it’s just the truth. And we have to learn to live with it—no matter how bitter it is.”

Half an hour later, I left too, leaving Felen and Audrey alone, promising to stop by on the weekend. On the way home, I thought about my conversation with Tabitha—about her words, about the pain that still lived inside her. The pain of shattered illusions, of betrayed trust, of lies—even if those lies were meant to protect her.

Perhaps that was our biggest mistake—Everett’s and mine: the decision to hide the truth, to allow our children to create their own version of events. Perhaps if we had been honest from the beginning—if we had allowed them to see the complexity of the situation, all the pain and all the love that still existed even in the midst of that pain—perhaps then Tabitha would not have built her identity on hatred for her mother and blind adoration for her father.

But the past cannot be changed. One can only accept the consequences of one’s decisions and move on.

At home, I made some tea and sat down in my favorite chair by the window. On the table next to me was a photograph that Corey had recently found in some old albums and given to me—a picture of our whole family on a picnic by the lake. Everett is holding little Tabitha in his arms. I’m standing next to Felen. We’re all smiling. That was before the accident, before the alcohol, before everything went wrong. We looked so happy—so full of hope.

I looked at the photo and thought about how life rarely goes according to plan—how sometimes the best intentions lead to the most painful consequences. That love is a complicated, tangled thing, and it’s never as simple as it is in novels or movies.

But I also thought about Felen—who had finally found peace with himself and his past. About Corey and Lane—once again part of my life. Even about Tabitha—who was so stubborn, so much like me, it sometimes hurt to watch. Maybe one day she’ll find her way to reconciliation too. Or maybe not. But that’s her path—her choice. And my choice is to accept what is—to find joy in the relationships that can be healed and let go of those that may remain broken forever.

This is not defeat—not surrender. It is simply accepting reality in all its complexity.

After all, isn’t that what life has taught me? Not all wounds heal. Not all stories have happy endings. Sometimes the best thing you can do is keep moving forward with an open heart and the wisdom that only comes with age and loss.

I put down my cup, walked over to my bed, and pulled a small velvet box from under my pillow. I opened it and looked at the ring Everett had given back to me before he died—a simple gold band with a small diamond, a symbol of promises, some kept, some broken. I closed the box and put it back under my pillow—not as a talisman, not as a treasure, but simply as a part of my history I was no longer afraid to acknowledge.

Outside, snow was falling, covering the world in a white blanket, giving the illusion of a new beginning. I knew that in the spring the snow would melt, revealing all the dirt and imperfections of the world. But I also knew that behind that dirt would come new life, new growth, new opportunities. Such is life—a cycle of loss and gain, pain and healing, endings and new beginnings. And in this cycle—despite all the difficulties, disappointments, and unfulfilled hopes—there is beauty. The beauty of acceptance, of wisdom, of peace.

I turned off the light and went to bed. Tomorrow would be a new day—a day I would spend not clinging to past grievances, not demanding impossible reconciliation, but simply living in the moment, appreciating what I have and letting go of what is irretrievably lost. In this, I realized, lies true freedom.