“I know.” He swallowed. “That night, I should have carried Sabina to the car myself.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t. I saw my mother watching, and I chose the wrong audience.”

It was the first genuinely honest sentence he’d spoken in years. The old me would have comforted him — said everyone makes mistakes, praised him for finally understanding, offered emotional relief because another person’s discomfort had always made me uneasy.

I did none of it.

“I hope you keep remembering that,” I said.