“I wanted to ask before I used them.”
“You asked.”
“You said yes.”
“I did.”
They stood among the smell of paper, glue, and dried flowers.
Tiffany touched the edge of the frame.
“I’m not going to ask you to forgive me.”
“That is wise.”
“I am going to keep changing whether you forgive me or not.”
Margaret studied her face.
Tiffany looked thinner. Older. There was no expensive makeup, no glittering gown, no bracelet. Her hands were stained with glue.
“That is wiser.”
A small smile touched Tiffany’s mouth and vanished.
“Daniel asked me to tell you that he started the financial program.”
“Good.”
“He said he knows you may never want to see him.”
“Good.”
Tiffany nodded.
“He also said he finally understands that being afraid of losing someone does not give him permission to own them.”
Margaret looked at the flowers.
“That is something he should have understood before he signed my name.”
“Yes.”
The agreement between them was not forgiveness.
It was accuracy.
Margaret walked toward the display.
At its center, one white orchid had been placed beneath a sheet of translucent paper. Its stem curved like a question mark.
A child had written beside it:
I can keep the beautiful parts and leave the hurt behind.
Margaret read the sentence twice.
She looked at Tiffany.
