She wrote about fear, greed, and shame.

I read it twice, then put it in a drawer with the documents from the investigation.

Forgiveness was not a bill that became due when someone apologized.

I could acknowledge that she was alive, hope she took responsibility, and still not be ready to rebuild what we’d lost.

On Eleanor’s birthday, Emma and I went to the cemetery with a small bunch of yellow flowers.

The air smelled of rain and cold grass.