But that wasn’t who he was. She understood that now. Didn’t forgive it, exactly. But understood. And somewhere, buried under all the resentment, she knew he had tried. In his way. In the only way he knew.
She spent the rest of the afternoon cataloging the contents of the boxes. The land deed was real, a small lakeside plot in upstate New York, apparently untouched for over a decade. The bank accounts were modest but stable. Enough to fix this place, if she wanted. Enough to leave, if she didn’t.