And the freedom I found, standing at that podium, was in finally understanding that I would never get an apology, never get an acknowledgment, never get the mother I had chased my whole life — and that I did not need any of it, because the truth did not depend on her admitting it.

The empty grave was real whether or not she was sorry.

My father was alive whether or not she repented.

I did not require her confession to know what she was.

I only required myself to stop waiting for a warmth that had never existed, and at that podium, at last, I stopped.

Chapter 24 — Can We Go Home