Chapter 7: Camryn’s Version text
Camryn’s version arrived indirectly—through a mutual friend who “thought I should know” how upset the bride was that an old letter had been used to hijack the morning.
I did not debate the friend. I thanked her for the information and kept my side of the story where it belonged: between my son, his father’s page, and the chair I had been told to surrender. Drama requires two performers. I had already walked away once. I could decline a second performance.
Trevor called that evening, voice tired. Camryn wanted a conversation with me present, mediated by the idea of “starting clean.” I agreed to twenty minutes in a public café, not a private living room where tone could be rewritten later. We sat. Camryn spoke about vision, about stress, about not intending to hurt me. I spoke about names—Diane versus Mom—about front rows, about peace that requires someone’s absence. Trevor listened more than he defended. When the twenty minutes ended, I stood first. Clean starts, I had learned, begin with accurate inventories, not with rushed forgiveness designed to restore a timeline.
