“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” I said. “You mean I did not come back and apologize for becoming someone you did not choose.”
Dad pushed back from the table.
“This is ridiculous.”
Judge Simmons told him to remain seated.
The authority in his voice stopped my father more effectively than anger would have.
My mother’s eyes filled, but I did not mistake tears for accountability.
There had been years available for a phone call.
Years for an apology.
Years to ask whether I was alive after the explosion.
They had used none of them.
Judge Simmons reviewed the documents once more.
Then he ruled that the petition had not established any legal basis for transferring the property.
The certified deed remained controlling.
The tax records contradicted the claim that my parents had carried the property expenses.
The request was denied.
There was no applause.
Real courtrooms do not resolve family pain with applause.
