Then she asked:
“What does Lucia say now?”
I thought about the woman who had spent eight years constructing a story about me.
The woman who had driven away in that moving truck believing she had finally won.
“She doesn’t say much.”
“Did she apologize?”
“No.”
“Do you think she ever will?”
“Probably not.”
“What does she say about what happened?”
“She still says she was trying to protect her son.”
Diana sighed.
“That is probably the explanation she’ll keep.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay with that?”
I thought for a moment.
“I’m okay with knowing who she is.”
That was the difference.
I had never needed Lucia to like me.
I had needed to understand what I was dealing with.
Knowledge changed the situation.
Even when that knowledge was painful.
Especially then.
When I ended the call, I looked around my house.
The rooms were furnished again.
