Vanessa remained mostly outside their lives.
But not entirely.
When Maya was thirty-one, Lillian died.
Vanessa sent flowers.
Maya almost threw them away.
Then read the card.
For the woman who repaired what I damaged.
I am sorry.
Vanessa.
Maya kept the card.
Not because she forgave everything.
Because it was true.
At the funeral, she thought about contacting Vanessa.
She did not.
Two years later, she did.
A single email.
Grandma died.
She kept the dress perfect until the end.
Thank you for never contacting me without permission.
I don’t know what our relationship is.
I don’t think I need to.
I hope you’re well.
Maya.
Vanessa responded one week later.
I’m sorry about Lillian.
She deserved better from me.
You did too.
I’m well.
I won’t ask for more than this.
Vanessa.
That became the entirety of their relationship for another five years.
Then Maya had a daughter.
Camille Lillian Monroe.
Marcus cried when he heard the name.
“You’re predictable.”
“I’m emotional.”
“Same thing.”
When Camille was six, Maya took her to the Rosewater exhibition where the pink gown was permanently displayed on loan.
The little girl pressed both hands against the glass.
“Mommy, is that yours?”
“It was.”
“Can I wear it?”
Maya laughed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s old.”
“You’re old.”
Marcus, standing nearby, nearly collapsed laughing.
Maya stared at her daughter.
“We are reconsidering your inheritance.”
Camille pointed toward the flowers sewn across the waist.
“What happened there?”
Maya looked at Marcus.
He stayed silent.
Her story.
Her choice.
“Someone cut it.”
The child’s eyes widened.
“With scissors?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Maya thought.
Because Vanessa was jealous.
Because she needed control.
Because she was hiding theft.
Because grief had become competition.
Because adults could make terrible choices when afraid.
All true.
Too much for six.
“Because she was angry and made a bad decision.”
“Did you cry?”
“Yes.”
“Did Grandpa yell?”
Marcus answered.
“A little.”
Maya laughed.
“A lot.”
“Did he fix it?”
“No.”
Maya pointed toward the embroidery.
“Great-Grandma fixed it.”
Camille looked impressed.
“Can you fix dresses?”
“A little.”
“Can Grandpa?”