She looked away.
“When Luke finally wanted to meet him, I thought maybe we could fix something. Then Daniel died before he ever got the chance.”
She wiped angrily at her face.
“And then I watched you come home from the funeral.”
Her voice dropped.
“Ben was holding Daniel’s hat.”
I stared at her.
“So?”
“So I hated you.”
The honesty stunned me.
Monica shook her head quickly.
“Not because you did anything. I knew it wasn’t your fault.”
She pressed a hand against her mouth.
“But you had twenty-seven years. Ben had a father. Your daughter had him. You had memories everywhere.”
She gestured toward my garden.
“Even the trees were full of him.”
My eyes moved toward the bags of fruit.
“So you decided to take something.”
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Because you wanted us to hurt too.”
Monica’s shoulders dropped.
“For one night, yes.”
The admission hung between us.
Nothing about her pain excused what she had done.
But suddenly, I understood it.
And somehow understanding was heavier than anger.
