“It doesn’t.” And I was grateful, even through the pain of it, that she did not hand me an easy, comfortable absolution just to stop my crying — because I did not want to be let off.

I wanted the truth, from her, even when it cut.

“Can you ever forgive me?” I asked.

And she looked out at Maya, stacking foam blocks in the sun, and she said the wisest thing anyone has ever said to me.

“Forgiving you doesn’t mean pretending it never happened, Laura.

It happened.

It hurt.

But I refuse to spend whatever time I have left punishing you for one terrible moment.” I asked her, then, to let me care for her — not to pay off a debt, I said, not out of guilt, but simply as her daughter.