I began gathering my folders.
My hands were still shaking.
I wasn’t happy in the way I’d expected to be.
There was relief.
Enormous relief.
But beneath it was grief.
Nana was still gone.
My parents were still my parents.
And the fact that I’d needed a courtroom to make them listen to the truth was something no amount of money could repair.
I slid the last folder into my bag.
When I looked up, my mother was standing beside my table.
Her eyes were red.
“Can we talk?”
I glanced at my father.
He was speaking angrily to Whitman near the door.
“About what?” I asked.
Mom pressed her lips together.
“Not here.”
I considered refusing.
Part of me wanted to walk past her without another word.
But I had spent the morning listening to her version of events.
I wanted to know whether she had anything different to say now.
