I didn’t forgive him right then. Forgiveness is a marathon, not a sprint. But as I watched him stand between his toxic parents and the hallway that led to our daughter’s room, I saw the first solid brick being laid over the ruins of his silence.

At 11:45 a.m., Richard and Patricia carried their suitcases to their sedan. They didn’t say goodbye.

Avery was the last to leave. She stood by the front door in the same thin jacket she’d arrived in. Grace stood halfway up the stairs, arms crossed, watching the exodus.

Avery looked up at her cousin. “I really am sorry, Grace.”

Grace nodded once. “I know.”

Avery hesitated, then walked to the stairwell. She didn’t offer a hug, but she reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it through the banister.