And the faded folder from the warehouse turned out to hold the thing the whole thirty years had been about: a memory card with the original files my mother had gathered, and, tucked in with it, a letter in her handwriting, addressed to me, hidden away decades ago.
My dearest Ondine, it read. I was so afraid of the powerful men who ran that plant that I hid the evidence far too long, and by the time I found my courage, innocent people had already been hurt.
I was no hero.
I was just a frightened mother trying to undo a terrible mistake.
If this dark past ever finds its way to you, please — do not let it turn you into someone bitter.
Do not let it make you hate.