Harold called once a month now. The conversations were short and polite.

He asked about the weather, my new apartment, work. We both pretended the past hadn’t happened. It was easier that way.

Joanna and I had lunch every other week. It was slow and awkward. She was learning to see me as a person instead of a problem.

It wasn’t the mother-daughter relationship I’d dreamed of, but it was honest, which was more than we’d ever had before.

Josephine and I got coffee on weekends sometimes. We were learning each other—really learning—for the first time.

She told me about the pressure she’d carried. I told her about the loneliness I’d felt.