Page 78 of Freedom’s Inferno

Gloria’s office was small, but neat. A cross hung above her desk, and a shelf sat beneath it, crowded with books and small keepsakes: a chipped mug full of pens, a framed picture of her grandchildren, a single fresh lily in a glass vase.

Gloria gestured toward the two chairs in front of her desk. “Please, have a seat.”

I hesitated for half a second before lowering myself into the one closest to the door.

Lana took the seat beside me, sliding her fingers over mine. She rested her hand there, an anchor, her touch steadying me.

I didn’t look at her, but I didn’t pull away either.

“It’s been what, ten, twelve years since you got that letter?” Gloria said as she settled into her seat. “When I mailed it, I wasn’t sure if it would reach you, and after all this time, I figured maybe you’d decided to leave the past alone.”

I looked down at where Lana’s hand rested on top of mine. “I tried to.”

Gloria nodded knowingly. “That never really works, does it?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Gloria sat, hands folded, gaze steady. “Your mother was with us less than a year before she passed. She was sick, but she was trying. I want you to know that. She was working through a lot. Trying to make peace with her choices.”

I swallowed, nodding, still not trusting myself to speak.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a small, worn folder. “Your mother left a few things behind. I kept them, in case you ever came.”

The folder creaked as she opened it, its corners softened by time. She slid a couple of newspaper clippings across the desk, the edges yellowed, the print faded. The first was a graduation announcement from Yale. My name bold in the headline, a picture of me beside it that I barely recognized anymore.

I’d forgotten that version of myself.

“She was proud of this,” Gloria said. “Talked about it more than anything else.”

She slid another photo across the desk, a faded image of a baby wrapped in a blanket, smiling through a toothless grin. My stomach twisted.

“That one stayed by her bed,” she said. “Right beside her Bible.”

I stared at it for a long time, almost afraid to touch it, like I would soil something sacred. My throat burned. I didn’t know what to do with any of it. All those years I’d built stories about where she’d gone, what she’d become, and not once had it crossed my mind that maybe, somewhere, she’d been thinking of me too.

“Your mother wasn’t here long,” Gloria went on, “but she used her time well. She found God. We talked a lot about peace. Not the kind you find in church, but the kind that comes from learning to forgive yourself, and helping others to do the same.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if I believed in that kind of peace.

Gloria reached into a small box on her desk and drew something out, silver glinting against her palm. “This belonged to her. I think she’d want you to have it.”

She handed me a rosary, heavier than it looked, solid in my palm, the weight of it almost grounding. The beads were a deep violet, smooth and cool to the touch. At the bottom hung a crucifix and a small, round medallion engraved with a winged figure.

“That’s Saint Michael,” Gloria said. “Patron of soldiers and the protector against evil. He represents Divine Justice… Your mother was always drawn to him.”

I stared at the small, tarnished medal glinting in the light, the archangel frozen mid-battle, sword raised, heel pressed to the throat of a serpent. My mother had kept this near her. The same woman who couldn’t protect herself without leaving me behind.

Justice.

She’d been drawn to it because she spent her whole life trying to find it, and maybe she thought dying sober was her way to earn it.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d spent most of my life pretending not to believe in that kind of balance, in the idea that good or evil ever found their proper weight. Whenever I’d crack open Inferno, I’d circle back to the same lines about sin and consequence, about how every punishment was a mirror turned inward. Maybe I wasn’t so different from her. Maybe I’d been chasing my own version of divine justice this whole time, trying to even a scale that refused to level.

“She wasn’t a perfect woman,” Gloria said. “But she was trying. You can forgive her, Charles. Not for her, but for you.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I stared at the beads, feeling their cool press against my fingers. Forgiveness had never been a language I knew how to speak and I wasn’t sure if I was too old now to learn.

“I’m sorry,” I said, clearing my throat. “This is just… a lot.”