No note.
Not every loose end needs a speech.
Then, three years after the assault, I got a call from Trevor’s counselor.
Not details.
Those were private.
A request.
Trevor had completed every required program.
Paid restitution according to the schedule.
Worked as a site estimator for a company with no connection to me.
No title.
No family money.
He wanted to ask whether I would consider one mediated meeting.
I said no.
Then six months later—
yes.
Because no had been mine.
Yes could be mine too.
We met at a therapist’s office.
Trevor entered slowly.
He had lost weight.
Hair shorter.
No expensive clothes.
He sat across from me.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then:
“Mom.”
I waited.
“I used to think the worst thing I did was hit you.”
My body tensed.
He continued.
“It was the worst physical thing.”
“But the belief underneath it started earlier.”
