She simply gathered her folder and left, because she knew, as well as I did, exactly what was on that forty-year-old page and exactly what it meant, and there was nothing left to say that would not make her situation worse.

The front door clicked shut behind her, gently, the same door she had come through so many times with her casseroles, and I knew with complete certainty that I would never have to see her face again.

The dining room was silent.

I turned to Clinton, slumped and devastated in his chair, and I reached over and covered his hand with mine, because he was still my son and his crime had only been to love and trust the wrong person too easily, which is not the worst thing a boy can be guilty of.

And then Nancy and Douglas rose and came around the table and put their arms around me, my fierce daughter and my quiet son, and for the first time since Lawrence died I let myself lean back into my children and breathe.