“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Who are you?” I asked, holding up the note. “Why do you keep doing this?”
She glanced at the flowers, then back at me.
“For loving him.”
My chest tightened.
“He’s my son.”
She nodded, as if she wasn’t arguing that.
Then, quietly—so quietly it almost felt like something I wasn’t meant to hear—she said:
“Ask Jonah what happened the day Harris was born.”
The air shifted.
Harris stepped forward behind me. “What are you talking about?”
The woman flinched slightly at his voice but didn’t look away from me.
“I didn’t come to take anything,” she whispered. “I just… couldn’t stay silent anymore.”
“Silent about what?” I asked.
Her lips trembled.
“The truth.”
Then she stepped back, turned, and walked away.
I called after her, but she didn’t stop.
