Chapter 19
“You think you're better than me.”
“No.”
I felt tears behind my eyes.
“I think you were afraid
of being seen as a failure,
so you made me one.”
She covered her mouth.
For the first time,
she looked genuinely ashamed.
Not cornered.
Not angry.
Ashamed.
I wanted that to mean
we had reached something important.
But shame,
I was beginning to understand,
was only useful
when someone accepted responsibility afterward.
Ranata lowered her hand.
“I did love you, Fay.”
My throat tightened.
“I believe you did.”
She began crying.
I remained where I was.
“I still do,” she whispered.
“I can't sort that out for you,” I said.
“I'm trying to sort it out myself.”
She reached toward me.
I stepped back.
Her hand fell.
“Will you ever forgive me?”
I looked at the woman
who had spent fourteen years
making my parents afraid for me.
“I don't know.”
She began to speak.
I stopped her gently.
“That's the most honest answer I have.”
We stood in silence.
Then I picked up the asset list.
“Give this to your attorney.
If you want to repay them,
do it properly.
Tell the investigators the truth.
Stop disputing things you know happened.”
She looked at me.
“And then?”
“Then you live with whatever follows.”
She stared at the list.
Finally,
she took it.
At the door,
she turned back.
“I thought the money would fix everything.”
I shook my head.
“Money can't repair something
you're still refusing to admit you broke.”
She left without another word.
I watched her drive away
until the red taillights
disappeared through the rain.
Then I sat at my kitchen table
and cried for the sister
I had once believed I had.
Not because I regretted my decision.
Because a right decision
can still be heartbreaking.
The next person to visit
was my father.
He arrived on a clear Tuesday morning
with a toolbox in his trunk.
I found him standing
beside the crooked fence
near the south pasture.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked embarrassed.
“You mentioned this gate was sticking.”
“Three summers ago.”
He rubbed his chin.
“I know.”
I studied him.
His hair had become noticeably thinner.
His shoulders weren't as straight
as I remembered from childhood.
He was holding the same toolbox
he had carried
when he taught me
to replace the chain
on my first bicycle.
“I can fix it,” I said.