What I wanted was neither, and neither is the thing our stories about estrangement give us language for.

I wanted to stop paying and stop being lied about and keep my daughter safe from the full weight of it, and I wanted, at the same time, to leave open the bare possibility that my mother might one day write a note that did mention the birthday, that did mention the dates, and if she ever did, I did not want to have burned the only road she could travel to reach me.

So the note went in the drawer, unsealed, unanswered.

Not forgiven.