Believe his actions. Not his apologies.
At the bottom of the letter, Mom had written:
You are not useless. You are not difficult. You are not too young to understand betrayal. People say that when they need you too small to challenge them.
I broke then.
Not gently.
I folded over the letter and sobbed until my broken wrist ached and my throat burned.
Grandma cried with me.
That made it worse and better at the same time.
When I could breathe again, she said, “There’s more.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
Grandma reached for the yellow folder and pulled out a photograph.
It showed Mom standing outside a bank, wearing her navy coat, looking tired but steady.
Next to her was a man I didn’t recognize.
“That’s Adrian Cole,” Grandma said. “Your mother’s attorney.”
“Okay.”
“This was taken two days before she died.”
My skin went cold.
Mom had died in a car accident on a rainy Thursday night. Dad had told me she was driving home from the grocery store. A truck ran a red light. Quick. Tragic. Nobody’s fault.
Grandma placed another document on the bed.
It was a police report.
My eyes moved over the words without understanding them.
Then I saw the location of the crash.
Not near the grocery store.
Across town.