She walked into that meeting expecting a final autopsy, not a resurrection. Years of distance had hardened into a kind of safety; she’d built a life that didn’t depend on anyone else’s emergencies. Seeing Lisa without the armor of performance—no ring, no filters, no excuses—was like recognizing a stranger who still knew her history by heart. The apology wasn’t poetic, just plain and specific, the way real remorse usually is. The check shook in Lisa’s hand more than hers.
