Not that the scales were made even, because they cannot be.

Only that the truth, at last, stands where the lie used to stand, and that my grandson gets to grow up in a world that knows who his mother really was.

Down on the field, Noah stepped up to the plate.

He set his feet, the way I had watched him practice a thousand times in the backyard, and he swung, and there was a sharp clean crack, and the ball soared high into center field and cleared the bases, and the little crowd around me erupted, and my grandson ran, his face blazing with pure uncomplicated joy, rounding third and sliding into home in a cloud of dust as his teammates swarmed him.

After the game he came pounding up into the bleachers, sweaty and grinning, his trophy in one hand, and threw his arms around my waist.