Years later, Vivienne sent me the photograph of herself at thirty-one.
The one with makeup covering the bruise.
On the back she wrote:
I thought hiding this made me strong. Then I demanded the same proof from you.
No request for forgiveness.
Good.
Then:
I protected my son from becoming accountable because nobody protected me from his father.
That sentence I kept.
Not because it excused her.
Because it named the inheritance correctly.
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