Page 132 of True Colors

He stills. “Yes, my starling.”

“I forgive you,” I murmur.

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

“Thank you.” His voice is thick. “I won’t waste it.”

“I know.”

In the quiet, I let myself grieve—not just for my mother, but for the version of me who never got the chance to be unbroken. But I don’t do it alone.

CHAPTER 32

Luther

The funeral is small but well attended.

That’s what Anouk notices, even before the casket, before the muted flowers, before the quiet murmur of a chapel that smells faintly of polish and old wood.

She stiffens beside me, and I know it’s because she’s surprised that so many people showed up.

My parents. Ria. Theo. Dot and Neil. Vijay, Pallavi, Mila, and Ian from work. Finn’s entire firehouse crew that’s not on shift. Even Martin, who has no reason to be here, except that he cares about me, and he knows I love Anouk.

Anouk’s breath catches. “They didn’t even know her.”

“They’re not here for your mother.” I tighten my hold in her hand. “They’re here for you.”

She turns slowly to look at me, disbelief written across her face. “B-but…?”

“They’re all your people, my starling. You’re not alone.”

She glances at Finn, who’s standing on the other side of her. He shrugs. “Hey, I think they’re here for the wake. Everyone loves an Irish wake. You know, no one turns down free booze.”

Finn planned that because, apparently, you have to, as per firehouse rules, at Danny Coyle’s, an Irish pub that’s popular with first responders.

Anouk groans and says sarcastically, “Right! That makes so much sense.”

The service is brief. There’s no grand eulogy, no whitewashing. No one pretends Cristina was better than she was.

When I planned it, I spoke with the officiant about Cristina and Anouk—carefully, without too much detail. Anouk wouldn’t have wanted that.

He obviously understood the assignment because he didn’t speak about forgiveness or redemption. Instead, he talked about the complexity of grief, about fractured lives, about endings that don’t come with neat bows.

It’s honest, and I think that’s all it needs to be.

Anouk doesn’t cry when the dates are read. She doesn’t flinch when the casket is closed. She stands very straight, scarf perfectly arranged, hand steady in mine.

“So?” I ask.

Her mouth softens into a hint of a smile. “I’m done.”

“Yeah?”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Yes. You see, I wasn’t mourning my mother,” she says almost absently. “I was mourning the absence of her. And now, I’m done with both.”

Danny Coyle’s is loud when we arrive.

There’s the familiar sound of beer mugs meeting scratched-up tabletops and the thud of boots on the worn wooden floors. There’s the distinct pub smell of beer, fried food, and weed. This is San Francisco; everywhere smells of weed.