The room fell silent.
Naomi was the first to speak. “How long, Mom?”
“As long as it takes,” I said.
Celeste wiped her eyes. “What if we fail?”
“Then you fail,” I said. “But at least you tried.”
Rosalind looked at me, her face pale. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”
I held her gaze for a long moment.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I want to.”
Violet stood and came to me, wrapping her arms around me.
“Thank you, Mom,” she whispered, “for giving us this chance.”
One by one, the others joined. All five of them, holding me, holding each other. And for the first time in years, it felt like a family.
The next morning, I stood on the front porch and watched them pack their cars.
Naomi was the first to leave. She hugged me tightly before getting into her rental.
“I’m going to prove it to you, Mom,” she said. “I promise.”
“Don’t promise,” I said. “Just do it.”
Rosalind was the last. She stood in the driveway for a long time, staring at the house. Finally, she walked over to me.
“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,” she said quietly. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to earn it.”
I nodded. “Then start today.”
She got into her car and drove away.
I stood on that porch and watched all five of them disappear down the road—back to New York, Chicago, Seattle, Austin, Portland—back to their lives.
And I wondered: would they change, or would they go back to who they were before?
I didn’t know.
But I’d given them the same thing Harrison had given them.
A chance.
I walked back inside, closed the door, and looked at the empty living room.
Twenty-five envelopes. Twenty-five nights. Twenty-five truths.
Now came the hardest part: waiting to see if any of it mattered.
Six months, I thought. In six months, I’ll have my answer.
Two weeks passed after night twenty-five. I heard nothing. No phone calls. No text messages. No emails. Just silence.
I sat in the empty house in Asheville and wondered if I’d been a fool. Maybe they’d taken their money and forgotten everything. Maybe the twenty-five nights meant nothing after all.
Then in week three, my phone rang. It was my oldest daughter.
“Mom,” she said, “I resigned.”
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