Lily made place cards for three people and one cat, even though June’s cat was not invited and probably would have judged the turkey.

On Christmas Eve, Savannah texted me.

I stared at her name for a long time before opening it.

I’m not asking for money. I just want to say I know what I said about Lily was horrible. I was angry and jealous of how much you love her. Mom always made it seem like you didn’t need anything. I think I believed her because it made taking from you easier. I’m sorry.

I read it three times.

My first feeling was not forgiveness.

It was exhaustion.

Then grief.

Then a thin thread of relief that at least one person had finally named the theft beneath the theft.

I did not invite her over. I did not open the door to a reunion my daughter was not ready for. But I did reply.

Thank you for saying that. I hope you mean it. We need distance. I wish you better than what we were taught.

Savannah sent one message back.

Me too.

It was not a movie ending.

No swelling music. No sisters crying into each other’s arms under Christmas lights.

Just two women standing on opposite sides of damage, one finally admitting there was damage at all.

Sometimes that is the beginning.

Sometimes it is enough.

PART 7

One year after the cake went into the trash, Lily turned eight at a small park beside the Potomac River.