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“Your mom’s asking for you. Alone.”

Of course she was. Diane Collins had never met a manipulation she didn’t weaponize. But she was dying, and I was here, and some dances you had to finish even when the music turned sour.

“Sophie?”

“Not here yet.”

Small mercies. I made my way downstairs, found my mother propped up in her hospital bed, looking frailer than yesterday. She patted the chair beside her.

“Sit. We need to talk.”

“If this is about forgiveness…”

“Like I told you. It’s about truth.” She waited until I sat, then dropped her first bomb. “I knew about the affair.”

“I know. You said you knew. That’s why I’m so pissed at you.”

“Yes.” Her fingers plucked at the blanket. “Because I saw them.”

The room tilted. “What?”

“One day I came home early from bridge club. Garrett’s car was in the driveway. I thought he was surprising you, maybe planning something romantic. Maybe he was waiting for me to help him.” She laughed, bitter and broken. “I walked into the house and there they were.”

My stomach churned.

“I saw them together and I left. Drove around for hours. Never said a word. I thought if I told you, I’d lose both daughters instead of just one.”

“You lost me anyway.”

“I know.” She met my eyes, no deflection left. “I was a coward. Thought silence meant strength. Thought if I pretended hard enough, it would disappear.”

“Mom…”

“Your father had affairs too. Three that I know about. Probably more. His secretary. A client’s wife. That tennis instructor you girls loved.” She smiled without humor. “I stayed. Made excuses. Thought that’s what strong women did. Keep the family together, protect the image, swallow the betrayal.”

“That’s not strength.”

“No. It’s not.” She reached for my hand. I let her take it. “But you did what I never could. You left. You chose yourself over the performance.” Her grip tightened. “I won’t ask for forgiveness. Won’t insult you with deathbed apologies. But I need you to know I see it now. What I took from you by staying silent. What I taught you about accepting less than you deserved.”

We sat there, mother and daughter, twenty-nine years of complicated history between us. No forgiveness. Maybe not ever. But acknowledgment. Recognition. A kind of reckoning.

The doorbell shattered the moment.

Sophie had arrived.

I heard her before I saw her. That practiced laugh, the way she modulated her voice for maximum sympathy. Then she appeared in the doorway, designer diaper bag on one shoulder, baby on her hip.

For one second, my sister’s mask slipped at seeing both of us. “Mom…”

“Sit.” Diane’s voice brooked no argument. “Both of you. We’re doing this now.”

“I don’t think…” I started.

“I’m dying, Samantha. We don’t have time for what you think.” She pointed to chairs. “Sit.”

Sophie and I took opposite sides of the bed, the baby fussing in her arms. Tyson appeared in the doorway, took in the scene, and reached for the baby without being asked.

“I’ve got him,” he said simply. “Y’all talk.”