I glanced at Mark, seeing the same question reflected in his eyes, not spoken, but present, waiting for an answer that neither of us could avoid.
Brenda looked at Leo again, her expression shifting, something like regret appearing, though it was uneven, incomplete, not yet fully formed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, the words careful, almost unfamiliar on her tongue, as if she was still learning how to shape them.
Leo didn’t respond immediately, his gaze still lowered, his fingers tracing the edge of the table, as if searching for something steady.
I could hear my own heartbeat, loud in my ears, the room around us fading slightly as the moment narrowed to something very small and very important.
Because forgiveness, I knew, wasn’t just about hearing the word sorry, it was about whether we believed the person understood what they had done.
Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes still on his mother, his expression unreadable in a way that made the air feel even heavier.
“This isn’t just about hair,” he said slowly, giving each word space, making sure it couldn’t be brushed aside or misunderstood.
“It was never just about hair,” he added, and I felt something settle into place, not as an answer, but as a direction.
Brenda nodded faintly, though it was unclear whether she fully grasped the depth of what he was saying, or if she was still catching up.
