"She didn't," Iris says flatly. "She never told me any of this. She let me grow up thinking my grandmother was just—absent. When really, she'd been pushed away."
"Your mother made her choice. A wrong choice, in my opinion, but hers to make." Monique reaches across the table to cover Iris's hand with her own. "What matters now is that you're here. Both of you. Marguerite wanted that more than anything—for her granddaughters to know the truth, to know this place, to know each other."
"And to know her," I add softly. "The real her."
"Yes." Monique squeezes Iris's hand before letting go. "Hélène died in 2015. Marguerite was never the same after that. But she had ten more years—ten years to plan, to prepare, to make sure that when she was gone, her story wouldn't be buried with her." She gestures between us. "You two are her legacy. Not just the property, but the truth. She wanted you to carry it forward."
The walk home is quiet.
The village streets are dark and empty, the stars brilliant overhead, and our footsteps echo on the cobblestones. I want to say something—to acknowledge what we've learned, to check if Iris is okay—but I don't know where to begin.
She's folded in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her middle, her face unreadable in the dim light. I recognize the posture from the first days after she arrived—the armor, thewalls. But this feels different. This feels less like defense and more like grief.
We're halfway up the hill toward the farmhouse when she finally speaks.
"My mother cut her off because she was gay."
I stop walking. Iris stops too, standing motionless on the dark road, staring at nothing.
"Iris—"
"Thirty-five years. Grand-mère had thirty-five years of happiness, and my mother couldn't accept it. Couldn't let it exist." Her voice cracks. "And I didn't know. I grew up thinking—I don't even know what I thought. That there was some complicated adult reason, some family drama I was too young to understand. But it was just—it was just bigotry. Simple, ugly bigotry."
"You were a child. None of this was your fault."
"But I'm not a child anymore." She turns to face me, and even in the darkness I can see the tears on her cheeks. "I've been an adult for years. I could have asked questions. I could have pushed back. I could have found Grand-mère myself, learned the truth, done something—"
"You didn't know there was a truth to find."
"Because I didn't look!" Her voice rises, echoing off the stone walls of the nearby houses. "Because I was too scared, too obedient, too focused on being the perfect daughter to rock the boat. And while I was being perfect, Grand-mère was alone and Hélène was dead and nobody—" She chokes on the words, pressing her hand to her mouth.
I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms.
For a moment she resists, her body stiff with tension. Then something breaks, and she's clutching at me, her face pressed into my shoulder, her whole body shaking with sobs.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her hair. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"It's not yours either."
We stand there in the dark road, holding each other, while Iris cries for a grandmother she never got to know and a truth she was never told. I stroke her back and let her grieve and try not to think about how right she feels in my arms.
This isn't about me. This isn't about what I want. This is about a woman learning that her family is built on a lie, and needing someone to hold her while she falls apart.
Eventually the sobs quiet. Iris pulls back, wiping her face with her sleeve, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Sorry," she says. "I don't usually—"
"Don't apologize." I brush a strand of hair from her face, and she leans into my touch for just a moment before stepping away. "You're allowed to feel things. Even the messy ones."
"I'm not very good at messy."
"I know. That's okay." I take her hand—carefully, giving her space to pull away if she wants. She doesn't. "Come on. Let's go home."
We walk the rest of the way in silence, hands linked, and I try not to think about what it means that this feels so natural. That holding her hand feels like the most obvious thing in the world.
Tomorrow we'll have to figure out what all of this means—for the inheritance, for our families, for whatever is happening between us.
