Not innocent.
Not forgiven.
But orphaned in a way I understood.
She looked at Samuel in my arms.
“I am sorry,” she said.
The words were small.
Too small for what she had done.
But real.
I said, “You will tell everything.”
She nodded.
“And you will never come near my children again.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know.”
As she turned to leave, Nathaniel spoke.
“Celine.”
She froze.
He stood slowly. “Your mother tried to save me.”
Celeste began to cry.
Not elegantly. Not dramatically.
Like someone whose revenge had been the only roof over her head, and now it had collapsed.
Part of me pitied her.
Part of me hated her.
Both could be true.
By dawn, Adrian survived surgery.
Barely.
The police wanted my statement.
Lawyers wanted instructions.
The press wanted blood.
But I wanted milk warmed, diapers changed, and all three of my sons breathing where I could see them.
