liked the work.
There was dignity in restoring order.
There always had been.
But I changed my business.
I hired women leaving abusive marriages.
Single mothers.
Women whose resumes had gaps because life had happened to them.
I paid well.
I provided health insurance.
And on Thursdays, I never scheduled clients.
That day became mine.
Sometimes I spent it with Willa, who eventually started nursing school.
Sometimes with Rose, who remembered more good days than bad.
And sometimes with Margaret.
Yes.
Margaret.
Forgiveness did not come quickly.
It should not.
For months, I could not look at her without remembering everything she had hidden.
But eventually, I understood something.
Margaret had been guilty of silence.
Terrible silence.
Cowardly silence.
But she had also spent years trying, imperfectly, to repair damage she had not created.
We did not erase the past.
We stopped pretending it had not happened.
One Thursday afternoon,
