“Whatever she did, she was your mother.”
***
It’s been a week since I found the missing piece to a puzzle I’d been holding for two decades.
I drove back to my brother’s house that evening and sat in the driveway for a long time before I went inside. I didn’t know how to explain what had happened, so I just told him I’d had a strange afternoon and needed a glass of water.
The locket is on my nightstand now. I look at it every morning when I wake up.
My conscience keeps asking if I’m angry. I don’t think anger is the right word.
As for forgiveness, I don’t know if I can give that to someone who isn’t here to receive it. If it even matters now.
My conscience keeps asking if I’m angry.
I loved Lucy completely. She made a choice I’ll never fully understand.
And somewhere in Oregon, there’s a young woman named Betty who lost her mother three years ago and found out last week that her mother’s story was bigger and more complicated than she’d ever been allowed to know.
I hope Betty’s okay. I hope she doesn’t let this calcify into bitterness, because none of it was her fault and all of it will be heavy if she lets it be.
So here I am now, holding the answer I chased for 20 years. And I understood for the first time why some questions are kinder left unanswered.
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