He didn't give up. Found me everywhere.

Knelt at my door for days, begging forgiveness.

Ten thousand "sorry"s.

On day ten, he collapsed.

Hospital said: Low blood sugar. Heartache.

Lily told me. I didn't visit.

Grandparents came.

Grandma cried, eyes swollen: "Vivi, he's your father! You can't do this! Your mom's gone. He only has you now!"

"It's that woman's fault! She's poison!"

"Please. See him?"

I looked at Grandma. This was the same woman who'd called me "as wild as your mother" and told me to act like a lady while I was being pelted with rotten eggs.

"Grandma, did you visit Mom's grave this year?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Mom's grave. Her death anniversary was last week. Did anyone in this family go?"

Silence.

"You all came to my apartment to curse me. Traveled across the city. But nobody drove twenty minutes to put flowers on her headstone."

Grandma's lip trembled.

"I went," I said quietly. "Alone. Like every year."

"I'll see Dad when someone in this family remembers that my mother existed."

They left. Nobody went to the grave.

Two weeks later, I went again. Alone. Cleaned the headstone. Laid fresh lilies—her favorite.

"Mom, I got a promotion. New apartment. A cat named Mochi."

"Dad's a mess. I know you'd want me to forgive him."

"But I can't yet. Maybe someday. Not today."

The wind stirred the lilies. I pretended it was her answer.