Richard bowed his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Gerald looked at him for a long time.
Then he said, “So am I.”
And somehow, that was not an accusation.
It was a shared sentence.
We copied the tape that night.
Three times.
One for Gerald’s attorney.
One for Richard’s attorney.
One for me.
The original went into my folder.
But I changed the label.
Things I Do Not Have to Carry became Things That Will Not Bury Me.
The hearing took place in March.
Not a trial, not yet. A preliminary hearing, our attorney explained. A place where my mother’s claims would either grow legs or collapse under the weight of their own dishonesty.
I wore a navy dress Ruth helped me choose.
“Serious, but not funeral,” she said.
Gerald wore his gray jacket.
The same one he had worn at the hospital.
When I saw it, I smiled.
He caught me looking.
“What?”
“That jacket has been through a lot.”
“So have I.”
“It looks tired.”
“So do I.”
I laughed.
He offered me his arm.
“Ready?”
No.
But I took his arm anyway.
The courthouse smelled like old paper, floor polish, and people waiting for judgment.
My mother arrived fifteen minutes after us.
She wore white.
Of course she did.
White coat. White blouse. Pearl earrings. Hair swept back. Face composed.