A month later, someone knocked on my door. It was Frances, standing there without her usual confidence.
She held a small photo album she had found while packing Waylon’s belongings. Quietly, she admitted she had believed his lies because it was easier than questioning her own son.
She handed me the album and said, “These memories belong here more than I do.”
After she left, I placed it beside my mother’s photograph and realized her greatest inheritance wasn’t the house—it was the courage to defend the truth.
