She came downstairs, stopped at the open box, eyes on the frame.
“You opened it,” she said. Not angry. Just tired.
“I’m sorry,” I said. My voice sounded foreign even to me. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was wrong.”
She traced the signatures, lingering on certain names.
“They didn’t forget me,” she whispered. “I thought maybe they had.”
Something broke inside me.
“I forgot you,” I admitted.
She looked up.
“Not physically,” I added quickly. “But I forgot who you are, what you carry, what you do every single day. I got caught up in titles and forgot that our life runs because of you.”
Her eyes glimmered, but no tears fell.
“I don’t need them to validate me,” she said softly. “I just needed you not to make me feel small.”
That hit harder than any words from anyone else.
“I won’t,” I promised.
She nodded.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
