I lead my mom towards the edge of the parking area, where several concrete benches overlook the athletic fields. We sit side by side on the cold slabs of man-made stone and take in the view as awkward silence reins.

Finally, my mom fidgets, hands clasped between jeans-clad knees, and utters a pair of words. "Lovely weather."

I cough lightly to hide a humorless laugh and grimace against the brightness of the afternoon sky. It shouldn't be funny that my mom and I have to resort to the weather to fuel a conversation, but here we are.

"What's funny?" She turns towards me, the timid uncertainty in her dark eyes telling its own story, and my weak humor fades. My dad doesn't listen to people he doesn't respect, and something tells me my mom is more accustomed to being laughed at than listened to.

"Nothing." I shield my eyes against the glare of the light sea-born haze whipped off the waves of the bay far below us, where whitecaps texture the water and sailboats, mere specks at this distance, catch the wind. Up here, high above the town and the harbor beyond, only the softest breeze stirs the air. "It's a perfect day."

Hunching in on herself, my mom plays absently with her shoulder-length brown curls. "I'm sorry. You must have a million places you'd rather be right now."

A sigh swells in my chest, but I restrain myself and release it silently. Along with the unlikely combination of dark eyes and blond curls (hers were blonde when she was my age), my mom and I share the same timid, self-effacing personality. I've worked hard to establish at least a modicum of confidence over the past four years, but I suspect my mom hasn't had the time or space to do the same.

I still have a long way to go, and it makes me wonder where Hazel finds the patience to not only tolerate, but actually desire my company. Having to constantly reassure someone is exhausting; it's already wearing on me and it hasn't even been five minutes.

"I don't have anywhere to be but here," I say. "Really. You can take your time, but I'm guessing you came here to do more than talk about the weather."

She meets my eyes with a weak, watery smile. "I'm sorry."

This time I don't catch the sigh before it escapes. I break eye contact, hoping she doesn't see my frustration, and run a hand through my hair. My fingers snag in the glue-like gel Hazel had leant me in an attempt to tame it, and I wince.

"Don't be sorry," I say. "Just—"

She lays her hand on my forearm, startling me into looking at her, and speaks with a firmness she hasn't shown so far.

"No, Charlie. I mean that's what I came here to say. I'm sorry."

Eyeing her warily, I ask, "Sorry for what?"

She startles me again with a laugh, though the sound has a bitter edge. "For what? For everything, sweetheart. For letting him treat you the way he did. For not standing up to him. For not protecting you."

She wipes her tears with the hem of her sweater sleeves as her eyes overflow and the corners of her mouth tremble.

Some small, mean corner of my mind is weirdly vindicated by her tears, as if they are evidence of a kind—proof that the pain is real—and a little of that hardness creeps into my tone.

"Why didn't you?" I ask. "Stand up to him, I mean."

She gives me a soft, sad smile. "Lots of reasons. But I suppose it boils down to a pretty simple answer. I was afraid, and that made me selfish."

I frown, uncertain how much I really want to know, but ask anyway. "What do you mean?"

Squinting, she looks away from me and gazes into the distance, her tone quiet and thoughtful, almost as if she's speaking to herself.

"You know, I was younger than you are now when you were born. You father was older. He had all the money and power, and he made me feel safe and taken care of—at first. That changed, of course. It wasn't long before I realized nothing was free; even his affection—if you could call it that—had a price-tag attached. If I didn't do the things he wanted me to do, or look the way he wanted me to look, or act the way he wanted me to act, then I wouldn't get the things that I wanted. Sometimes, that was spending money, new shoes or new clothes; sometimes, it was food, or sleep, or a ride home. He monitored everything I did so closely, I was afraid to go against him even when he wasn't watching."

My frown deepens. "That sounds like abuse. Didn't you tell anyone what was happening?"

She laughs humorlessly. "I was so naive, I thought abuse meant black eyes and bruises. I didn't know there were other kinds; that someone could hurt you without ever raising a hand. By the time I learned otherwise, it was too late. Then you started to grow up, and it got worse."

"It did?" I ask, flinching a little.

She nods, eyes shining with unshed tears, and lifts her hand to the side of my face. "Yes. It got worse, because as you got older, and his focus shifted from me to you—when it was you who had to walk home in the rain, or got locked outside for the night, or sent to bed without supper—and I did nothing, that made me as bad as him. I was so afraid of him that instead of protecting you, I pretended I didn't see how he treated you."

In the silence that follows, my childhood begins to make more sense: my mom's perpetual distraction and weird obsession with looking perfect all the time; the way she always deferred to my dad and never once took my side, even when she knew he was wrong. It hurts more than I expect it to, and I can't tell if I blame her more or less for knowing the truth.

"I don't expect you to forgive me," she adds, maybe reading something in my expression. "There's no excuse for what I did—or didn't do—and I'm not making any. I just want you to know... I'm sorry."

My throat aches with emotion. I swallow several times, cough, and wipe my eyes before I'm able to speak. "Why now? I mean, what made you leave him?"

My mom smiles, but it's a twisted, tortured expression. Her bottom lip quivers, and it looks like she's using every ounce of willpower she has not to burst into tears.

"I'm not a good person, Charlie," she whispers. "But I think you are, and that makes me happy. When your father told me what he'd done, and why, I was furious. I wanted to call you right away and tell you everything would be alright, and that I loved you no matter what, and that I'd known you liked other boys for a long time. But your father..." She shakes her head. "He's like a chess master, while I can't win a game of tic-tac-toe. He gave me a new phone and told me none of our old numbers would work. I've never been good with computers, so I've never had my own. He changed the password on my email—locked me out so I had to make a new account. I couldn't even remember your address."

Tears track down her face and she swipes at them angrily, drawing a shaky breath.

"I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't hear it. He said... Well, he said a lot of terrible things, but mostly that you'd been a 'bad investment,' and might as well not have been born. That meant I'd been a bad investment, too, and though he didn't say it out loud, the writing was on the wall. As a man, he could try again—have more children—but I'm expired goods. I knew I had to leave him, only I couldn't—not right away. I had nothing of my own: the house, the cars, the bank accounts—everything is in his name. Can you believe I never even had my own credit card?"

"Yeah, actually." I raise my brows at her. "I thought if he left you, you'd get half his assets. Why not wait him out?"

She laughs hysterically. "Do you really think that would have gone well for me? Your father says I'm dumb as a brick, but I'm not that stupid. I wasn't about to risk my life or sanity on the chance he'd keep his word. No, I knew I had to leave. I knew, and suddenly I wasn't afraid anymore."

She twists her hands in her lap, and I notice the lighter circle of skin on her left ring finger, where her diamond-encrusted wedding band used to be.

"You sold it?" I ask, pointing.

She nods. "Yes, and the rest of my jewelry, too. He can sue me if he wants; I'm sure a judge would be very interested to hear him justify how everything he's ever given me still technically belongs to him."

"Did you get a lot for it?"

She looks up again, a faint flush tingeing her cheeks and a touch of pride lighting her eyes. "Yes, actually. Enough to get me started, until I get my feet under me again. Enough to give you something, too."

Pulling her purse onto her lap, she rummages within and extracts a long, slim jewelry box.

"He gave this to me when you were born," she says, placing it in my hand. "He wasn't there for the actual event, of course. I suppose this was his way of saying 'good job.' Anyway, I think you should have it."

Carefully, I open the box and reveal a necklace.

"That's a yellow diamond," my mom says, indicating the heart shaped stone. "It's set in eighteen karat white gold. The appraiser said it's worth twenty-five grand, so don't take a cent less if you can help it. He was spot on for my other pieces."

I freeze, at once astonished and appalled by the value of this relatively tiny piece of carbon crystal.

"I can't take this," I say, snapping the box shut and trying to hand it back to her. "I wouldn't know what to do with it, and—"

"It's okay, Charlie," she says, closing my fingers around the box and meeting my eyes with the first genuinely warm smile I've seen. "You'll do just fine. Do you know how I found you?"

I shake my head. A Google search of my name brought up almost nothing, except...

"When I finally had the chance to look you up, I saw the pictures from your internship. That's how I got your professor's name. I got in touch with him, and he told me such wonderful things about you. I don't think anything has made me so happy in a very long time."

"Professor MacDowell... talked about me?" I swallow as my brain goes down a galactic wormhole of terrible possibilities before arriving right back where it began.

"Yes. He told me about himself and Hazel, too; but he was very protective of you. I don't think he trusted me, entirely. He didn't want me upsetting you so close to your graduation, but he invited me to the ceremony, and so... here I am."

She shrugs, giving me another timid smile.

I turn over the box in my hands. It barely weighs an ounce but it feels like a heavy burden. "Are you sure about this?"

She nods. "Absolutely. I have plenty to get me going; a lot more than most people in my position. And it's really the least I can do. I hope that someday, you and I can really heal, but for now..." She shakes her head. "Sometimes, what you have is worth fighting for; worth repairing and building up, no matter how many times it's knocked down. Other times, you have to know when the ruins will never be a palace again, and it's time to move on. I hope we can move on together, in our own ways, and leave your father in the dust where he belongs."

"I'd like that, too," I say, returning her smile. "You know, there are lots of grants available for women returning to school. You should think about it."

"I just might." She casts her glance downward as her smile broadens. "Especially if I have my famous paleontologist son to recommend me."

"Mom..." I roll my eyes.

She flicks the tassel hanging from my cap.

"I'm serious," she says, laughing for real. "You're so brilliant, Charlie. I guess..." Her laughter fades and her tears return, but they're not tears of pain or shame, this time. "I guess 'I'm sorry,' isn't all I came to say. I came to say I love you, and I'm so proud of you, and you're brilliant. All the things I should have said a thousand times before. And I don't want anything from you. All I want is for you to be happy. You've a bright future ahead of you. Brighter than diamonds—I'm sure.

"Academia really isn't that glamorous," I say, but clutch the jewelry box close as I open my arms to her, inviting her into a hug.

Her body feels delicate as a bird's in my arms, and we release each other too quickly, but I miss her warmth nonetheless.

I walk her back to her rented car, and as she gets in and drives away with a final wave and smile, I realize she was right about one thing, at least.

The future is wide open, and my decision is made.