My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

One for Richard’s attorney.

One for me.

The original went into my folder.

But I changed the label.

Things I Do Not Have to Carry became Things That Will Not Bury Me.

The hearing took place in March.

Not a trial, not yet. A preliminary hearing, our attorney explained. A place where my mother’s claims would either grow legs or collapse under the weight of their own dishonesty.

I wore a navy dress Ruth helped me choose.

“Serious, but not funeral,” she said.

Gerald wore his gray jacket.

The same one he had worn at the hospital.

When I saw it, I smiled.

He caught me looking.

“What?”

“That jacket has been through a lot.”

“So have I.”

“It looks tired.”

“So do I.”

I laughed.

He offered me his arm.

“Ready?”

No.

But I took his arm anyway.

The courthouse smelled like old paper, floor polish, and people waiting for judgment.

My mother arrived fifteen minutes after us.

She wore white.

Of course she did.

White coat. White blouse. Pearl earrings. Hair swept back. Face composed.

Claire came with her, carrying Noah in a car seat.