Chapter 18
Years passed.
Maisie grew into a fierce girl with yellow flowers on her desk and a talent for asking questions adults did not want answered.
At ten, she asked to read parts of Rose’s diary.
We let her, with her therapist.
She cried.
Then said, “Grandma Rose was scared but did it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“I can do that.”
“You already have.”
At twelve, she spoke at a trust event.
Vivian and I sat in the front row.
Flora stood near the aisle, ready if Maisie changed her mind.
Maisie did not.
“When I was little, someone told me I destroyed everything I touched,” she said. “But that was a lie grown-ups use when they want children to carry adult guilt.”
The room listened.
“I touched a vase. It broke. Then truth came out. Sometimes breaking the wrong thing exposes the right thing.”
I cried.
Vivian held my hand.
Afterward, Maisie rolled her eyes.
“You’re all very emotional.”
“Yes,” Flora said. “Terribly inconvenient.”
Maisie laughed.
Cedric earned Sunday visits.
Not every Sunday.
Some.
He never arrived without asking.
He brought stories of Celia.
What little he knew.
He brought old photos.
He brought regret.
Maisie accepted the stories faster than the man.
That was her right.
My mother died in custody when Maisie was thirteen.
I felt little.
Then grief.
Then relief.
Vivian asked, “Do you need to mourn?”
“I don’t know.”
So we planted one lavender bush.
May you like
Not for my mother.
For the part of me that wanted one worth mourning.
