Preparing.
The word hit differently now.
Not scheming. Not controlling.
Escaping.
My mother’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For all the times I didn’t choose you.”
I swallowed hard.
Behind her, Amanda peeked around the hallway corner, cautious.
My mother saw her and froze.
Amanda’s voice was small. “Hi, Grandma.”
My mother’s face crumpled. “Hi, sweetheart,” she whispered.
Amanda hesitated, then asked the question that mattered most:
“Why did Grandpa do that?”
My mother closed her eyes, a tear slipping down. “Because he wanted to hurt your dad,” she whispered. “And he used you to do it.”
Amanda’s mouth tightened. “That’s mean,” she said simply.
“Yes,” my mother replied. “It is.”
Amanda stared at her for a moment, then stepped forward and hugged her—quick, brief, like she was testing.
My mother clung for half a second too long, then let go as if she understood trust had to be earned.
I watched them and felt something inside me shift again.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But possibility.
Because the stick had exposed my father.
And it had freed my mother.
