Nora came to me late that night.
"I need to tell you something."
Her hands were shaking.
"That night… when mom started everything…"
I stayed quiet.
"I knew something was wrong."
Silence.
"But I stayed quiet."
That honesty mattered.
"I was jealous," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"Dad trusted you more."
That hurt.
But it also explained things.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
I studied her carefully.
For the first time she looked like someone trying to grow.
"Then don't stay quiet again," I said.
She nodded.
"I won't."
Sometimes forgiveness starts small.