My mother was sorry.

I believed her.

And I still did not owe her my presence, my forgiveness on demand, or my re-entry into a family that had shown me, across thirty years and one unmissable wedding, exactly where I ranked.

Perhaps someday I will write back.

Perhaps someday, from the safe distance of my own life, I will be able to offer her something — not the daughter who paid the bills, that daughter is gone, but some smaller, more honest connection between two adults who have finally told each other the truth.

Or perhaps not.