“We will,” Kate promised, squeezing the fragile hand gently.
Lillian's breathing grew more labored. “The inn will succeed. You'll succeed. Together. Stay together, no matter what.”
“We will,” Dani said, crying openly now.
Tom nodded.
James took Lillian's other hand. “Rest now. It's okay. You're forgiven. Rest.”
Whether the forgiveness was real or performed didn't matter. What mattered was the peace that settled over Lillian's face, the way her breathing eased, the grip of her hand relaxing in Kate's.
They sat with her through the afternoon and into evening, the four siblings holding vigil. Dani held one hand, Kate theother. Tom read from a book of poetry he'd found on the cottage shelf, Yeats, their mother's favorite. James played quiet classical music from his phone.
As the sun began to set, painting the harbor in beautiful colors, Lillian's breathing changed. Kate found herself squeezing the fragile hand gently.
“It's okay,” she heard herself say. “Mom's waiting for you. She forgave you. We're okay. You can go to her.”
Whether Lillian heard her or not, Kate would never know. But something in her grandmother’s face eased, the lines of regret softening. She died as the last light faded, surrounded not by forgiveness exactly, but by the grace of presence, by grandchildren who chose to be there despite everything.
Outside the cottage, Ben waited. Someone had called him, probably Dani. He didn't say anything, just opened his arms, and Kate ran into them.
“I lied to her,” Kate whispered into his shirt. “I told her I forgave her.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you're crying. If you'd really forgiven her, you'd feel peace. You feel guilty for lying.”
“She was dying. What was I supposed to do?”
“Exactly what you did. You gave her mercy. That's its own kind of forgiveness.”
He held her while she cried for losses both fresh and ancient, for the complexity of family, for the lie that was also a gift, for the forgiveness she'd performed but couldn't yet feel.
“She was a terrible person,” Kate said into his shirt.
“Yes.”
“She destroyed my parents.”
“Yes.”
“I don't know if I can ever really forgive her.”
“You don't have to. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you gave her peace. That matters. Perhaps in time you’ll be able to see clearly, and true forgiveness will come.”
The permission to not forgive, to feel whatever she felt without judgment, while still acknowledging the mercy she'd shown, loosened something that had been twisted tight in her chest. She stayed in Ben's arms while her siblings made necessary calls, while the hospice nurse handled the practical matters of death.
Later, back at the inn, the four siblings sat in the kitchen where hours earlier they'd frantically assembled a wedding cake. The contrast was surreal, joy and grief occupying the same space, separated by just hours.
“What do we do now?” James asked.
“We run the inn,” Kate said. “We take care of Pop. We move forward.”
“Together,” Dani added.
“Together,” Tom agreed.
