My parents found me by my car much later. Mom spoke first, her voice unsteady. She said she had watched it all and chosen silence every time, and that silence was a decision, not an absence.
Dad only said, “I did not know the footage made it that plain.” It was not an apology, but it was the first honest sentence he had ever offered me. I did not forgive them that night. I folded the robot drawing into my jacket and drove home with the windows down. Some doors open in one evening. Others open an inch a year, and I decided I could wait.
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