The Apology That Didn’t Arrive With an Audience
I went back to my life.
I planted fall greens.
I fixed my porch swing.
I stopped writing “Monroe mortgage support” in my ledger.
Weeks later, an envelope arrived.
Inside was Candace’s handwriting.
She apologized for the porch.
For the guard.
For not knowing who she was without the house and the people who admired her for it.
She said she was pregnant and tired.
She asked if she could come.
I didn’t rush to respond.
I let time do what arguing couldn’t.
The baby came in late October.
I learned the date from a photo that arrived by mail.
A tiny face wrapped in the white blanket I made.
On the back, in Preston’s careful letters, it said:
“Thank you.”
Two weeks later, Candace knocked on my door with the baby in a car seat.
No makeup.
No crowd.
Just my daughter and her child.
She said, “Mama.”
I stepped aside.
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