Work bloomed. The Healthcare Systems campaign won an Addy. Tom bought cupcakes for the team and made a speech about resilience that made even the interns look misty. I started mentoring a junior copywriter named Lila whose father ran a small deli in Quincy and who wrote lines so clean they felt like glass. On Tuesdays, after support group, Elizabeth would meet me at the café and we’d share a lemon bar, splitting it down the middle with a fork like teenagers.
In June, a letter arrived from Sarah’s attorney requesting a meeting “to discuss a potential resolution of outstanding interpersonal matters.” Richard raised an eyebrow when he read it.
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“It means she wants something she can’t get in court,” he said. “Closure. Money. Both.”
We met in a neutral conference room with a view of the Common. Sarah came alone, dressed simply, the baby at daycare, her hair pulled back in a way I had never seen. For once she didn’t try to perform. She looked small, and for a dangerous second, I felt the ache of our childhood—two girls in matching pajamas under a blanket fort, whispering about the future.