Minutes later, Lily came in. She looked nothing like the woman who once criticized me so easily. She was thinner, exhausted, hollowed out by guilt. She stopped a few feet away, trembling.
“Mom,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
Later, in the hospital cafeteria, she finally broke. She confessed everything—the resentment, the entitlement, the cruelty. She admitted that at first, losing the inheritance hurt more than losing me. That truth cut deeply, but it was honest.
Then she said something that stopped me cold.
“But when the kids started falling apart… I realized what I’d really lost. Not money. You.”
Her voice cracked. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I’m asking for the chance to earn it.”
I didn’t forgive her then. But I didn’t walk away either.
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