My mother sent a final letter through her attorney.

It contained a reluctant acknowledgment that Jenna and Wesley had needed help and that she had failed to obtain it.

It also contained excuses.

I read it once.

For much of my life I’d believed there were only two choices: defend my mother or reject everything she’d ever done for me.

I now understood I could remember my childhood honestly while refusing to let its good moments excuse her choices as an adult.

I wrote back through counsel that we did not consent to visits or direct contact.