Emma glanced at me.
“Can my mother come too?”
“Of course.”
During the flight, she eventually leaned her head against my shoulder and slept.
My parents continued sending letters through counsel.
Most started with explanations. Some contained partial apologies. One letter from my father acknowledged the vote had been cruel but asked me to remember the years of love that preceded it.
I kept each letter inside a sealed box.
When Emma reached adulthood, she could decide whether she wanted to read them.
Forgiveness was not mine to give on her behalf.
Eighteen months after the incident, one final letter arrived from my mother.
Unlike the previous ones, it offered no defense.
We chose our comfort over Emma’s safety. We expected you to fix the problem because you had always fixed everything. I am ash@med that a larger seat mattered more to me than remaining beside my granddaughter.
