Chapter 14 - What an Apology Costs
I met Brooke in a coffee shop a week later.
I chose a table near the door.
She noticed.
She didn’t comment.
There was no makeup under her eyes, no bright opening joke, no attempt to act like we had only been busy.
She placed her phone facedown.
“I’m sorry I helped replace your dress,” she said. “I’m sorry I lied when you asked what happened. And I’m sorry I wrote that email because I knew exactly what would make you give in.”
I waited.
She swallowed.
“I don’t have a good reason.”
“What you said at the hotel—about Mom being nice to you?”
“It’s true.”
“But?”
“But you didn’t owe me that.”
I looked at my coffee.
For years, apologies in our family had been doors that swung shut.
I’m sorry you’re upset.
I’m sorry, but you started it.
I already apologized. What else do you want?
Brooke wasn’t reaching for the handle.
“What happens next time she’s angry with you?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
That answer was better than a promise she couldn’t keep.
“I moved out,” she added.
I looked up.
She had been living with our mother while saving for a condo.
“Where?”
“A room with a coworker. It’s small.”
“Does Mom know?”
“She said I was abandoning her.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Brooke gave a tired smile.
“Apparently you started a trend.”
I didn’t laugh.
She nodded.
“Sorry. Bad joke.”
We sat quietly.
Then she slid an envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
“The rush-delivery money. Rosa told me the amount after you said she could send me the receipt.”
I had forgotten giving permission.
“I’m not buying forgiveness,” Brooke said. “I helped create the expense. I should pay it.”
I took the envelope.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes filled.
I could see how badly she wanted to reach for me.
She stayed in her chair.
“I miss you,” she said.
“I miss who I thought we were.”
She nodded, and a tear dropped onto her wrist.
“I know.”
When we left, I didn’t hug her.
But I told her she could text me the following week.
It wasn’t a reunion.
It was a small opening she hadn’t forced.
That evening, a package waited outside our apartment.
Inside was my father’s original letter.
Not Mark’s copy.
The one my mother had kept.
Beneath it was a single sheet in her handwriting.
May you like
This time, there was no mention of money.
And the first sentence made me sit down.
