On New Year’s Eve, mom gave presents to every grandchild except mine, so I quietly left and said never to invite us again—then at 6:00 a.m. on January 1, my family’s “new year’s gift” arrived at their door.

My mother’s voice broke.

“I am sorry.”

Noah looked up.

His face was guarded, but listening.

“You made Emma cry,” he said.

My mother flinched.

“Yes.”

“She cried in the car.”

“I know.”

“No,” he said, surprising all of us. “You don’t. Because you weren’t there.”

My mother’s eyes filled.

“You’re right.”

Noah considered her.

“Emma doesn’t want to see you.”

“I understand.”

“She might never.”

My mother pressed her lips together.

“I understand.”

“And I don’t forgive you today.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“That is fair.”

Noah nodded once, businesslike.

Then he opened his compass.

“Your car is parked west,” he said.

My mother blinked.

Dad coughed.

I bit my lip.

Noah added, “So you don’t get lost.”

It was not forgiveness.

It was Noah.

And that was better.

My mother covered her mouth and nodded.

“Thank you.”

She left five minutes later.