“I’m not here to…” Her voice catches, and she clears her throat. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t know if I was ready,” I say. “But it’s time.”
She nods like she expected that answer.
“I’ve been going to therapy,” she says, then winces like she hates admitting it out loud. “Not because I want sympathy. Because I needed someone to tell me to stop justifying everything by making excuses.”
That lands harder than it should.
Not because it changes anything. Because it’s honest.
I lean back slightly in the chair. “Okay.”
Sierra’s mouth tightens. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“It’s not about having to,”I tell her. “It’s about needing to.”
Her eyes drop to her cup. “I understand that.”
We sit in silence for a moment, long enough that the barista behind the counter glances over like she’s deciding whether we’re about to start a scene.
We’re not.
Sierra lifts her gaze again. “I keep thinking about that night. The gala. The way you looked at me when you found out.”
I don’t flinch, but my chest does something tight and familiar.
“You took my choice away from me,” I say, and the words aren’t calm anymore. “You let me believe that baby was mine. You let me build a future around it. And finding out none of it was true gutted me.”
Her throat works. She swallows. “I thought I was protecting everyone.”
“That’s the problem,” I say, and my voice stays level even as something sharp moves under it. “You weren’t protecting everyone. You were controlling the outcome.”
She nods slowly, eyes glossy but not spilling. “I know.”
I watch her for a beat, looking for the old habits. The deflection. The careful phrasing that made her sound reasonable even when the truth wasn’t.
It’s not there tonight.
Good.
She takes a breath. “I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
I pause. “Why are you here, then?”
Her hands tighten around her cup. “Because I’ve been living in the consequences of what I did, and I realized I’ve never once actually said the simplest part out loud.”
She lifts her eyes, and this time she doesn’t look away.
“I did take your choice,” she says. “I made decisions that weren’t mine to make. And I did it because I was scared.”
I let out a slow breath. “Of your parents.”
She nods. “Of what they’d do if they knew. Of what they’d do to Knox. To you. They don’t lose quietly.”
I don’t respond right away. There’s a version of me, months ago, who would’ve softened at that. Who would’ve reached across the table and offered comfort because discomfort made me feel like I was failing.
I don’t do that. Instead, I say what’s true.
