Evelyn smiled.
“Yes.”
That spring, Richard planted seventy-two black walnut saplings along the western ridge.
Why seventy-two?
Seventy for the stolen trees.
One for Samuel.
One for Evelyn.
He did the work himself.
At first Evelyn thought it was performative.
Guilt.
A project he could finish and point to.
But then he returned the following weekend.
And the weekend after that.
He installed guards around the saplings.
Cleared weeds.
Repaired damaged fencing.
Learned where the cattle crossed.
Learned the names of the men who leased the lower fields.
Learned which pump failed every winter.
Learned how the solar lease worked.
Not because the trust would become his.
Thomas made that clear.
It would not.
Richard came anyway.
Three months after the baptism, Evelyn found him painting the porch railing.
“You missed a spot.”
He stared at her.
“I’m on the first board.”
“Starting badly is still starting badly.”
He rolled his eyes.
She smiled.
The repair between them was not dramatic.
There was no single apology large enough.
No inheritance restored.
No speech that erased decades.
Instead, there were Saturdays.
Phone calls.
Coffee.
Awkward questions.
Sometimes arguments.
Sometimes silence.
Richard had to learn that apology did not create immediate trust.
The first time he asked Evelyn if she needed help with her banking, she snapped.
“I managed finances before you knew what multiplication was.”
He backed off.
The first time he suggested replacing her old truck, she glared.
“You think money makes a truck less useful?”
“No.”
“Then leave my truck alone.”
He did.
Two weeks later, the transmission failed.
Richard did not say a word.
He drove her to the mechanic.
That restraint probably did more for their relationship than another apology.
Emily accepted the role of successor trustee.
Slowly.
With conditions.
“I want training,” she told Thomas.
“You’ll have it.”
“I want an independent accountant.”
“Already required.”
“I won’t make medical decisions alone.”
“You won’t.”
“And Dad cannot pressure me.”
Thomas looked over his glasses.
“If your father pressures you, call me.”
Richard, sitting beside her, raised both hands.
“I understand.”
Emily looked at him.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She held his gaze.
“I love you.”
Richard swallowed.
“I love you too.”
“That doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”
His face tightened.
But he nodded.
“I understand.”
That was new.
Before the baptism, Richard treated forgiveness like a door he was entitled to have opened.
Afterward, he learned sometimes forgiveness was a road.
And the person you hurt decided how fast you walked.
Vanessa’s case moved through the courts.
Her attorney attempted several strategies.
She blamed the logging company.
