I stood rigid.
This woman smelled of soap, cedar smoke, and the lavender lotion my mother used when I was a child.
A sound broke from my chest.
Then I held her.
Seventeen years collapsed.
I was sixteen again, waiting beside a window for headlights that never came.
“You’re alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re alive.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I pushed away.
Anger came as quickly as relief.
“You let us bury you.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had seventeen years.”
“I watched you from a distance.”
“That makes it worse.”
Her mouth trembled.
