It was thin.
It would not erase the year I had lived.
It would not make me debt-free because I already was, through work, grace, and Mr. Gideon’s attic.
It would not undo betrayal.
But it was something I had never seen from her before.
Accountability with numbers on it.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
Then she hugged me.
Gently.
Like she was asking permission with her arms.
I hugged her back.
Not like before.
Not with my whole childhood.
Not with blind trust.
But with something real enough to matter.
Elowen joined us, crying immediately because apparently our family had become the kind that cried in public now.
Wren wrapped herself around my waist.
Mr. Gideon stood several feet away, pretending to read a bulletin board.
I saw him wipe his glasses.
That night, back in the attic, I opened Dad’s final letter.
