"He wants to reconnect. When you're ready. If you're ever ready. He said he doesn't expect forgiveness—just wants you to know he's proud of you."
Tears spill down her cheeks. "I don't know if I can forgive him."
"You don't have to decide that now. You don't have to decide anything." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I just wanted you to know that he's there. That he's changed. That maybe, someday, if you want to reach out..."
"Maybe I could write him a letter," she says slowly. "Start there. See how it feels."
"That sounds like a good idea."
"Will you help me? Figure out what to say?"
"Whatever you need."
She leans back into me, and I feel some of the tension drain out of her body. "Maybe," she says softly. "Someday."
It's not a yes. But it's not a no either.
The rest of the visit passes too quickly.
Vanna gives us a tour of the facility—the residential wing, the common room, the therapy spaces where she's been doing the hard work of putting herself back together.
She introduces us to Patricia, her counselor, who tells me Vanna is one of the strongest people she's ever worked with.
"She doesn't give up," Patricia says. "No matter how hard it gets."
We eat lunch in the cafeteria.
Aunt Ellie deems the meatloaf "acceptable" and the mashed potatoes "better than expected."
Vanna picks at her food—the nausea is still rough—but she manages half a roll and most of a cup of soup.
After lunch, we find a quiet corner and just sit together.
Vanna curled against my side, my arm around her shoulders, Aunt Ellie pretending to read nearby.
"I've been thinking about names," Vanna says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"If it's a boy, I want something that honors your parents. Your dad's name, maybe."
My throat tightens. "You'd want to do that?"
"They're part of you. Part of our family, even if they're not here anymore." She looks up at me. "I think they'd be happy. About the baby. About us trying to make things right."
I can't speak. Can only pull her closer and press a kiss to the top of her head.
"And if it's a girl," she continues, "I want something strong. Something that means she can survive anything."
"She'll be strong," I say. "With you as her mother, how could she not be?"
Vanna laughs softly. "I'm not strong, Blood. I'm barely holding on."
"That's what strong looks like, Van. Holding on when everything in you wants to let go."
She's quiet for a moment. "Thank you. For believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself."
"Always."
