She looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
This time, I believed she understood what those words meant.
“I know,” I said.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Thomas was waiting beside Grant.
My uncle.
My real family.
Together, we drove to a cemetery two towns away.
For the first time, I stood before Eleanor and Michael Vale’s graves.
Clara was in my arms.
She was nearly eighteen months old by then, round-cheeked and curious, tugging at the flowers in my hand.
I carefully knelt.
“Hi,” I whispered.
My voice broke.
“I’m Natalie.”
Then I laughed through my tears.
“I guess you already know that.”
Grant rested his hand on my shoulder.
Thomas stood behind us.
I placed the flowers between the two headstones.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like the daughter who owed everybody something.
I didn’t owe Diane gratitude.
