Nearly a year has passed. Natalie and Brandon lost the Bali deposit and paid the consequences themselves. They’re now in counseling. Natalie has her own bank account, stronger boundaries, and a clearer understanding of her marriage. I don’t know whether they’ll stay together, and I’ve learned that I don’t need to decide that for her. What matters is that she calls every Wednesday and comes to my house for supper on the first Sunday of every month.

In September, Natalie used Margaret’s jar to take a trip along the Cabot Trail. When she returned, we had our usual Sunday dinner. At the dining-room doorway, she suddenly took my arm. “I never got my walk with you,” she whispered. So I walked my daughter eleven slow steps across our old floorboards, past her mother’s photograph, and pulled out her chair. I’d spent years believing love meant paying every invoice and quietly standing out of the way. But the day I finally stopped paying was the day my daughter made room for me at my own table—and truly saw me again.