Chapter 9 - THE RAINY APOLOGY
It was a bitter Tuesday evening in November when my doorbell rang. I opened the heavy oak door of my Beacon Hill brownstone to find Valerie standing on the porch. The gold dresses and diamonds were gone, replaced by a cheap raincoat soaked through. She looked thin, tired, and entirely broken. "Grandma," she sobbed, falling to her knees on the wet stone. "I have nothing. I’m sorry. I was stupid. Please, just let me come home." I looked down at the girl who had once carried a stuffed rabbit to my dinner table. My heart ached, a deep, maternal grief for the daughter I had lost and the granddaughter I had ruined with too much privilege. "I forgive you for the slap, Valerie," I said gently, stepping back into the warmth of the foyer. "But you cannot come in. You don't know who you are without my money. It’s time you find out." I closed the door quietly, leaving her in the rain.
