Chapter 6

The next morning, I turned down every invitation and flew home first class.

I didn't choose the cheapest route with three connections anymore. I didn't grip the armrests during takeoff. A plane was just a tool — one that had failed to bring me my mother but had carried me to the places where I'd built something better.

When we landed, my phone was already overwhelmed with notifications. It took a moment to load.

Apparently, someone had filmed my speech and posted it online. It had gone viral overnight. Journalists had already dug out the details — the connection between me and Vivian, the slap, the arrivals hall photograph from five years ago that had been floating around, unnoticed, until now.

People were making comparisons. Infographics. Timelines.

The internet loves a comeback story. Especially one with a villain.

I got back to the office to find a voicemail from a Cambridge dean, telling me they were proud of me, that I'd always been one of their finest, and inviting me to speak at the upcoming alumni gala.

I said I'd think about it.

Stanford wasn't the only institution that mattered. And I was already Cambridge's youngest distinguished alumna.

I put the phone down and went back to work.

The noise online wouldn't make me richer. It wouldn't undo a single one of those years.

A week later, Vivian sent me over a hundred messages in under an hour.

Stella, I know I was wrong.

I'm coming home. Can you forgive me?

I've missed you. I've missed Eleanor terribly.

I have to admit — you're more impressive than Sofia. I really mean that. I'm so proud of you.

I read them all the way through.

And then I put the phone face down.

She was still doing it. Putting Sofia down to lift me up. As if that was the currency she was offering.

Maybe ten years ago — maybe even five — hearing those words would have meant everything to me.

But I didn't need them anymore.

Another winter came.

I hadn't been back to Harrogate in years, not for the holidays, not for any reason. I was honest with myself about why: I was still angry. Angry at Gran for covering for her all those years. Angry at myself for believing the story for so long.

But that year, I went back anyway.

Work ran late, and by the time I finished there were no train tickets left. I stood at the station for a long time, staring at the departures board. Then I got in my car and drove through the night — several hours, just me and the motorway and the darkness — and arrived as dawn was breaking over the fields.

I stood outside the front door for a long time before I went in.

I'd tried to bring Gran to London when I could afford to. She'd refused. So I'd had the old house renovated instead, every room, top to bottom. The neighbors said Gran was lucky — fancy that, raising a girl and having her turn out better than any son could have.

Gran always shook her head when she heard that. "I owe her everything," she'd say quietly. "It shouldn't have been like this."

I'd prepared something to say. Some easy opening line, some way to slide back in as if no time had passed.

But I hadn't prepared for what I found.

Gran was in bed, thin as a winter branch.

She heard the door and opened her eyes, searching the room until she found me.

"Stella, love. You're home." She tried to push herself up. "Let Gran make you those eggs—"

"Don't get up." I crossed the room in two steps and sat beside her.

And I understood, then, why I'd felt compelled to come back. Something had drawn me here that I hadn't been able to name. I understood it now.

This was the last Christmas I was going to have with family.

She passed on the second of January.

She held my hand at the end, and with what was left of her strength, she said: "Stella. The thing I'm most ashamed of in my life is that I helped your mother deceive you. I thought I was protecting you. I was wrong."

"But the thing I'm most proud of — that's you. You didn't lean on anyone. You did it all yourself. I'm so proud."

"Let go of the anger, love. Carrying hate around is exhausting. She's not worth the weight."

She talked for a long time, her voice going in and out, and I held her hand and didn't let go.

We gave her a proper send-off.

I hired a professional choir and a string quartet. The church was full. Flowers in every pew.

I wanted people to see.

The girl who used to curl up in corners, hiding from other children's fists, wishing her mother would come home — she wasn't here anymore.

After the funeral, back in London, I found new messages from Vivian.

She's gone and you didn't tell me? Why?

Stella, I know you hate me. But why did you keep me from seeing my own mother one last time?

Stella. I want to come back and light a candle for her. Please.

I watched her go from hysterical to calm over the course of her messages, read them all the way through, and replied with two words.

You don't deserve to.