Chapter 15
Lorenzo came to see Agnes after eighteen months.
She requested it.
I objected.
She ignored me.
Seventy-three years old and suddenly impossible.
The meeting happened in the chapel.
Her choice.
I remained outside the open door.
Lorenzo entered with a cane.
Older.
Smaller.
No audience.
No standing loyalists.
He looked at the space where the caskets once sat.
Then at Agnes.
“You won.”
She shook her head.
“There.”
He frowned.
“That is why you lost.”
He still thought everything was winning.
She continued.
“Antonio spent his life trying to beat you. You spent yours trying to beat his memory.”
Lorenzo looked away.
“And Bianca?”
“My daughter is not the score.”
Silence.
He asked:
“Do you hate me?”
Agnes took time.
“No.”
He almost relaxed.
Then:
“I don’t trust you.”
Same distinction.
Good.
He sat.
They spoke for thirty minutes.
Childhood.
Antonio.
Their mother.
No succession.
No organization.
Eventually Lorenzo apologized.
Not for all of it.
For the coffin.
Specific.
Agnes accepted the words.
Not restored access.
When he left, I asked:
“Why see him?”
She looked tired.
“Because I’m old.”
“Terrible reason.”
She smiled.
“Because I wanted one memory of him where he wasn’t trying to make me disappear.”
That I understood.
May you like
Not forgiveness.
A final memory chosen by the victim rather than imposed by the offender.
