No secret call.
No hidden agenda.
Susan had simply been my friend that night.
I cried harder over that than I had over the ugliest entries.
Because I realized the past did not need to become entirely false for betrayal to be real.
That was another kind of grief.
Good memories did not excuse bad choices.
Bad choices did not automatically erase every genuine moment.
Holding both truths was exhausting.
Months later, Emily and I drove to the lake property.
Neither of us had been there since Michael died.
She had visited as a teenager once with him.
I had apparently been away helping my mother after surgery.
Another altered memory.
But this time, I did not collapse.
We walked down to the dock.
The boards needed repair.
Michael would have complained about them.
Emily said, “He hated loose nails.”
I stared at her.
“He carried a hammer in the trunk.”
