“Cecily,” my mother’s voice sounded smaller than I’d ever heard it. “Can we talk? Just us?” she asked.

I agreed to meet her at a coffee shop in the center of town. Neutral territory. No chance of Harold turning up with lawyers.

Joanna was already there when I arrived. She looked older somehow. The careful makeup couldn’t hide the exhaustion underneath.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. She wrapped her hands around a cup she hadn’t touched. “I know I don’t deserve it,” she said.

“What do you want, Mom?” I asked.

“To apologize,” she said. The word came out cracked. “For everything. For the way we treated you. For the things we said. For the things we didn’t say,” she added.