I told her no. But I paid for a motel so she wouldn’t sleep in her car. She said she’d earn back my trust. I didn’t believe it. Then came the lawyer’s letter. Old debt. A forged signature from years ago. On paper, collectors could take my home. I confronted her. She cried, promised she was trying to fix it.
One morning she pressed a letter and key into my hand. A hidden safety-deposit box. Inside: $42,000 and bonds. “For you. I’m sorry.” I paid the debt. Then I rushed to tell her—but she was gone.
I buried her beside Dad. Forgiveness didn’t erase anything—but it made the weight lighter. I kept the house. I kept my father’s steadiness. And I let the rest go.