“It is.”
“Nora runs it?”
“Yes.”
“Your grandfather always liked her.”
“He did.”
He nodded.
For a while, we listened to the ventilation system.
“I used to think you were trying to replace me,” he said.
“I was trying to survive you.”
His eyes lowered.
“I know that now.”
I had imagined this conversation many times. In some versions, he begged. In others, I delivered a speech that left him speechless.
The real conversation was quieter.
“I’m not here to forgive you,” I said.
“I understand.”
“I’m here because I don’t want you to believe your choices erased everything good that came before them.”
His mouth tightened.
“Was there anything good?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You taught me how to read a contract.”
Despite himself, he gave a faint laugh.
“You were always better at it than I was.”
“I know.”
He looked at me then.
“I am sorry, Claire.”
The words were late. They were not enough.
But they were not nothing.
“I believe that you’re sorry,” I said. “You still have to live with what you did.”
“I know.”
