For three weeks, that chair had felt like a confession booth.
Every night, I had listed my failures.
Every missed opportunity.
Every moment I wished I could undo.
But that night was different.
Susan waited quietly.
I looked at my mother’s letter resting on the bedside table.
Then I said the words I had spent years believing were impossible.
“My mother knew I loved her.”
Susan squeezed my hand.
“Yes, Sam.”
I looked at her.
For the first time, there was no argument inside my head.
No voice telling me I should have done more.
No memory twisting itself into another punishment.
Just the simple truth.
My mother had known.
Susan smiled softly.
“She always knew.”
And that was the first night in years that I finally believed it.
