Claire looked at Tom.
Something passed between them.
“She raised me well,” Claire said, turning back.
“I want you to know that.
Whatever happened — she did it alone, and she did it well.”
“I can see that,” I said.
Anna looked at the table.
“Mum.” Claire reached across and covered Anna’s hand with hers.
“I’m not angry at you.”
“You have every right to be,” Anna said.
“Maybe.
But I’m not.” Claire squeezed her hand.
“You believed what you were told.
You did the best you could.” She paused.
“I’m sad.
That’s different from angry.”
The word settled over the table like something soft and heavy.
Sad.
Yes.
That was the right word for all of it.
Not rage, not blame — just the enormous, quiet sadness of a life that had been bent out of shape by one lie told at a door on an ordinary morning.
