Chapter 11
Agatha asked me afterward:
“Does he fear me?”
“Yes.”
She looked wounded.
I did not soften it.
“Good.”
Her eyes flashed.
“No.”
I corrected.
“It is not good that he fears you.”
Then:
“It is good that you finally know.”
She sat slowly.
For once, no defense.
“I never feared Victor.”
Her husband.
Julian’s father.
“Never?”
Silence.
Then:
“I respected him.”
Old answer.
I waited.
She looked toward the window.
“Sometimes.”
There.
Victor had hardening for adults too.
Long drives without rest.
Punishment meals.
Cold rooms after arguments.
Agatha called it discipline when directed at sons.
What had she called it when directed at herself?
Marriage.
That answer remained unspoken.
She looked at me.
“If I say it was wrong, what does that make me?”
Finally.
The real question.
“Someone who continued it.”
She flinched.
Then:
“And if I stop?”
“Someone who stopped.”
Not absolved.
Not monster forever.
Action.
That was all I could give.
She cried quietly.
I had never seen Agatha cry.
I did not hug her.
Not punishment.
Just honesty about where we were.
Then she asked:
“Can I apologize to Elliot?”
“Someday.”
“When?”
“When he wants.”
Her old instinct rose.
“I am his elder.”
I looked at her.
She stopped herself.
Good.
Then:
“When he wants.”
May you like
Better.
Change sometimes looks like catching your own sentence before it finishes.
