There it was.
Not greed. Not malice. Hunger.
The same hunger our parents had fed all our lives: to be admired, to be chosen by people who looked impressive, to confuse being near power with possessing worth.
“You were enough before him,” I said quietly.
She covered her face.
We sat like that for a while.
Finally she lowered her hands and said, “I’m not asking you for anything. I know I don’t deserve that. I just needed you to know I see it now. What I did. What I let happen.”
I walked to the window.
Below us the city moved with its usual indifference. Delivery trucks, cabs, office workers, tourists staring upward at buildings they would never enter. Systems layered under systems. Invisible structures making visible lives possible. I had always understood cities better than families. Cities didn’t pretend to love you while asking you to shrink.
“You don’t need to spend the rest of your life apologizing,” I said at last. “Just don’t forget again.”
