Chapter 393
Chapter 393:
Camille opened the journal, her breath catching at the sight of her own childish handwriting. She skimmed entries about school achievements, friend troubles, and dreams of becoming a famous scientist, musician, or writer—the limitless ambitions of a child not yet touched by doubt.
One entry caught her eye, dated just weeks before Rose arrived:
“Mom and I planted the garden today. She says the roses will bloom by summer. Dad built me a bench so I can sit and read next to them. It’s going to be MY special place. Mom says everyone needs a place that’s just theirs, where they can think their own thoughts.”
A forgotten memory surfaced… of sitting on that bench with a book, the sun warming her face, her mother gardening nearby. Of feeling utterly safe, utterly known.
“You remember the garden?” she asked, looking up at Margaret.
Margaret nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You helped me choose the plants. You wanted yellow roses because they looked like sunshine.”
“What happened to it?” But Camille already knew the answer.
“Rose happened,” Richard said quietly. “She was allergic. Or said she was.”
Another silence fell, heavier than before.
“We failed you,” Margaret said finally. “There’s no excuse for that. But the love was real, Camille. It always was.”
Camille closed the journal, running her fingers over its worn cover. She thought of Victoria, who had saved her but never truly nurtured her. Who had rebuilt her but never reminisced about who she’d been before.
“I don’t know if we can go back,” Camille said honestly. “Too much has happened.”
“We don’t want to go back,” Richard said. “We want to go forward. To know who you are now, not just who you were then.”
“And we want you to know us,” Margaret added. “Not as the parents who failed you, but as people trying to do better.”
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Camille looked at these two flawed, hopeful people across the table. They had hurt her deeply. Had believed Rose over her. Had enabled years of subtle undermining that had eroded her sense of self.
But they had also given her piano lessons and fishing trips. Had built her garden bench and celebrated science fair victories. Had loved her before it all went wrong.
“I think,” she said carefully, “we might try for chocolate almond cake.” It wasn’t forgiveness—not completely. But it was an opening, a small space where something new might grow.
Their faces lit with cautious joy. As Richard signaled for the waiter, Margaret reached across the table again. This time, Camille met her halfway, their fingers touching briefly.
“Tell me more,” Camille said. “About the girl I was. The parts I’ve forgotten.”
As Margaret began to speak of birthday parties, school plays, and summer afternoons, Camille felt something shift inside her—not a tearing down of the walls she’d built, but a small window opening. Just enough to let in the light—memory, of connection—while keeping her boundaries intact. Just enough to begin again.
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