At first, I didn’t know what to say. My grief was still raw, and the thought of losing the only physical piece of him I had left felt unbearable. But I also knew that anger wouldn’t honor the man he had been.
So I stepped aside, took a breath, and spoke gently.
The room fell silent. I half expected them to argue, or to insist on legalities, or to turn cold. But instead, something softened unexpectedly.
His mother’s eyes filled with tears.
She sat down slowly, as if the weight of years had finally caught up with her. “I made mistakes,” she whispered. “Mistakes I was too proud to fix. He deserved better from us. I wish I’d said it while I could.”
Her honesty broke something open in the room. All the resentment, all the distance, all the unspoken regret — it was suddenly visible, gently laid out between us.
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