Chapter 4
Chapter 5: SWEET REVENGE
For a long time, I stood at the edge of my daughter’s wedding reception with Jessamine’s question glowing in my hand.
Will you teach me how to be a mother?
Around me, life continued.
Champagne glasses touched.
Silverware chimed against plates.
The band eased into an old soul song Isaiah used to sing badly while washing the car.
Verity was laughing with Malcolm beneath strands of warm lights, her face turned toward him, her wedding ring catching gold.
Emory stood near the bar talking to one of his cousins.
Nobody knew that a sentence from the woman who had nearly divided us was sitting in my palm.
I read it again.
Will you teach me how to be a mother?
My first instinct was tenderness.
My second was caution.
That second instinct mattered.
Forgiveness without memory is not wisdom.
Jessamine had lied.
Manipulated.
Blamed.
She had tried to make my son prove his love by sacrificing his sister.
Pregnancy did not erase that.
Tears did not erase it.
One sincere letter did not erase it.
But change does not begin after a person becomes perfect.
It begins the first time they tell the truth when lying would be easier.
I typed slowly.
I can help.
But you have to become the mother only you can be.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
I don’t know who that is.
I answered:
Neither did I at your age.
That was true.
I had been twenty-six when Emory was born, four years older than Jessamine, and I had still stood beside his crib the first night home wondering why the hospital had allowed two inexperienced people to leave with an entire human being.
Isaiah had found me crying.
“What if I mess him up?”
I whispered.
Isaiah looked into the crib.
“We probably will.”
I hit his arm.
Then he smiled.
“Not on purpose.”
That became our first rule.
Not perfection.
Intention.
The second rule came later.
Apologize when intention fails.
I put my phone away.
That night belonged to Verity.
Jessamine could wait until morning.
After the reception, I helped gather gifts and flowers.
Emory carried boxes to Malcolm’s car.
Verity changed into a simple white suit for their departure.
At the curb, she hugged me.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“That’s too broad.
I’ll start getting ideas.”
She laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“Did Jess text you?”
I looked at her.
“How did you know?”
“Emory told me about the fountain she bought.”
“Ah.”
Verity glanced toward her brother.
“He asked if he could tell me.”
“Good.”
“I said he could bring it over after the honeymoon.”
I studied her face.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
That answer made me smile.
“But I want to stop being afraid that forgiving her means I’m stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I know.”
She touched my emerald earring.
“Did you forgive Dad every time he messed up?”
“No.”
Her eyes widened.
“Mom.”
“I forgave him eventually.”
She laughed.
Then I kissed her forehead.
“Forgiveness isn’t pretending something didn’t happen.
It’s deciding what happens next won’t be controlled entirely by what happened before.”
“That sounds suspiciously wise.”
“I’m sixty-nine.
I have to earn these wrinkles somehow.”
She hugged me again.
As she climbed into the car beside her husband, I looked toward Emory.
He was watching them too.
“Go home to your wife,” I said.
He nodded.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for not making me choose.”
I almost corrected him.
He had chosen many times.
That was the point.
But I understood what he meant.
“I love both my children,” I said.
“That’s not a competition.”
He hugged me.
Then he whispered, “I think she’s trying.”
“I think so too.”
“But?”
He knew me.
“But trying isn’t the finish line.”
He smiled.
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughed and walked away.
The next morning, I woke at eight thirty.
My feet hurt.
My back hurt.
My house looked as if a florist had exploded in it because I had brought home six centerpieces nobody else wanted.
I made coffee.
At nine fifteen, the doorbell rang.
Jessamine stood outside.
No makeup.
Hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
Loose sweatshirt.
One hand rested protectively over a stomach that did not yet show.
In her other hand was a paper bag.
“I brought muffins.”
I looked at it.
“Bribery?”
“Blueberry.”
“Effective bribery.”
She smiled nervously.
I let her in.
She had been inside my home many times.
That morning felt like the first.
We sat at the kitchen table.
She looked toward Isaiah’s empty chair.
“Emory talks about his dad a lot.”
“I know.”
“He says he would’ve liked the baby.”
“He would have bought that child a drum set just to punish me.”
Jessamine laughed.
Then she looked down.
“Can I ask you something?”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“Did you ever hate being a mother?”
I appreciated the question because it was not pretty.
“Sometimes.”
She looked shocked.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you loved it.”
“I loved my children.
That’s not the same as loving every minute of raising them.”
She considered that.
“Did you ever want to leave?”
“Once.”
Her eyes widened.
“Where?”
“A hotel.”
“What stopped you?”
“I couldn’t find my keys.”
For half a second she believed me.
Then I smiled.
She laughed.
“I did spend one night at my sister’s when Emory was four months old,” I admitted.
“Isaiah and I had been fighting.
The baby wouldn’t sleep.
I had not had six consecutive hours of rest in months.
I packed a bag and left.”
“What happened?”
“I slept eleven hours.”
“That’s it?”
“I came home.”
“Was Isaiah mad?”
“He had learned enough during those eleven hours not to be.”
She laughed again.
It was strange hearing laughter in my kitchen from a woman I had once wanted nowhere near my daughter.
Then she became serious.
“My mother left.”
I knew some of that story.
Not all.
Jessamine stared at her muffin.
“I was eleven the first time.
She came back after two months.
Then she left again when I was fourteen.”
“Who raised you?”
“My dad.
Sort of.”
She picked at the paper wrapper.
“He wasn’t mean.
He just didn’t care much.”
I let her choose the pace.
“Sometimes there wasn’t food unless I reminded him.”
My chest tightened.
“I learned to make grilled cheese because it was the only thing we always had.”
“Jessamine.”
She shrugged.
“It was fine.”
“No.”
Her eyes lifted.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Call neglect fine because you survived it.”
She looked away.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I don’t want my kid to feel like that.”
“Then don’t make your child responsible for convincing you to stay.”
She nodded.
“And don’t make your child responsible for healing what your parents broke.”
Her face tightened.
That one hurt.
Good advice often does.
“I did that to Emory, didn’t I?”
“Sometimes.”
“And Verity.”
“Yes.”
She wiped her cheek.
“I don’t want to be that person.”
“Then don’t.”
“You make everything sound simple.”
“Simple and easy are not the same.”
She nodded.
We talked for nearly two hours.
Not about the fountain.
Not much.
We talked about babies.
Money.
Sleep.
Fear.
Marriage.
How resentment grows when two tired people keep score.
How children hear more than adults think.
How apologizing to a child does not destroy authority.
How loving your child does not mean owning your child.
Before she left, Jessamine stood in the doorway.
“Can I hug you?”
The question almost undid me.
“Yes.”
She stepped forward.
Her arms went around me cautiously.
I hugged her back.
Not like Verity.
That mattered.
Jessamine was not my daughter.
She did not need to replace anybody to belong.
When she pulled away, she was crying.
“So this is weird,” she said.
“Very.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She laughed.
Then she left.
For the next month, our family entered a strange new season.
Verity returned from her honeymoon.
The chocolate fountain remained in its box for two weeks.
Then one Sunday, Emory brought it to my house.
Verity came with Malcolm.
Jessamine did not.
That had been her choice.
I watched Emory place the box on my kitchen island.
Verity stared at it.
“You don’t have to use it,” he said.
“I know.”
“Jess said you could throw it away.”
“I know.”
“She paid too much for it.”
Verity looked at him.
“How much?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Then definitely too much.”
He smiled.
She opened the box.
The fountain was smaller than the one from the engagement party.
Three stainless-steel tiers.
Simple.
New.
Verity touched the top.
Then she looked at me.
“Do you have chocolate?”
“Baby, I’m a Black grandmother.
I have enough ingredients in this house to survive a federal emergency.”
Malcolm laughed.
We set it up.
The motor hummed.
Chocolate climbed through the center and spilled over the top tier.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The sound took me back.
Marble.
Screaming.
Jessamine’s smirk.
My hand striking her face.
Verity’s ruined dress.
Then Verity picked up a strawberry.
She dipped it.
Chocolate coated half.
She bit into it.
“Not bad.”
Emory exhaled.
We all did.
That fountain did not erase the first one.
It did something better.
It became a different memory.
Later, Verity wrapped two chocolate-covered strawberries in wax paper.
“Take these home.”
Emory accepted them.
“To Jess?”
“Unless you’re planning to eat them in the car.”
His eyes filled.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re making it weird.”
He laughed.
At the door, Verity called after him.
“Emory.”
He turned.
She hesitated.
“Tell her the fountain works.”
He nodded.
That was all.
But sometimes reconciliation is not a bridge.
Sometimes it is one board.
Then another.
Then another.
Jessamine entered her second trimester.
Her pregnancy began showing.
She sent me questions at absurd hours.
Is heartburn supposed to be this bad?
Can babies hear music yet?
Emory says I can’t paint the nursery.
Is he being dramatic?
I answered what I knew and told her to ask her doctor what I did not.
One afternoon, she asked me to go shopping with her.
“For what?”
“Baby clothes.”
“Where’s Emory?”
“Working.”
“Verity?”
Silence.
Then:
I didn’t ask her.
Good.
Jessamine was learning not to force intimacy.
We went together.
She picked up a tiny yellow sleeper and began crying in the middle of the store.
I pretended not to notice until she was ready.
Then she said, “Nobody ever kept my baby clothes.”
I touched her shoulder.
“You’ll keep too many.”
She laughed through tears.
“I already know.”
She bought the sleeper.
I bought nothing.
That surprised her.
“You’re not getting anything?”
“Not today.”
“Why?”
“Because this is your trip.”
She stared at me.
Then smiled.
A week later, I arrived at their apartment with three bags.
“I’m still the grandmother,” I said.
She laughed so hard she had to sit down.
At twenty-four weeks, Jessamine asked to speak with Verity.
Not through me.
Not through Emory.
Directly.
She sent a message.
Verity showed it to me but did not ask what to do.
That was progress too.
“I think I’m going to meet her.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.
Something maternal.”
“Wear a jacket.”
She rolled her eyes.
They met at the same diner where Jessamine and I had met months earlier.
I did not go.
I did not ask for a report.
Verity called that night anyway.
“We talked.”
“How was it?”
“Awful.”
My heart sank.
Then she added, “And good.”
I waited.
“She apologized again.”
“Okay.”
“Not for the fountain.”
I frowned.
“For what?”
“For making me responsible for how she felt about her life.”
I sat down.
That was bigger than the fountain.
“What did you say?”
“I told her I was angry.”
“Good.”
“I told her I didn’t trust her.”
“Good.”
“I told her I hated what happened to Emory.”
“Good.”
“Can you stop saying good?”
“Absolutely.”
She sighed.
“Then I told her I understood some of it.”
“Some?”
“The jealousy.”
That surprised me.
Verity continued.
“I’ve been jealous too.”
“Of Jessamine?”
“Sometimes.”
I almost laughed.
“For what?”
“She’s fearless.”
I thought of the fountain.
“That is one word.”
“Mom.”
“Sorry.”
“She walks into a room like she assumes people are going to look at her.
She wears things I could never wear.
She says what she thinks.”
“That last one has not always been a blessing.”
“Still.”
I understood.
We are often jealous of qualities whose cost we cannot see.
“Did you tell her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She laughed for about a minute.”
I smiled.
“And then?”
“She said she’s always been terrified.”
That sounded right.
Verity grew quiet.
“Mom, I think I want to try.”
“Try what?”
“Having a relationship with her.”
I chose my next words carefully.
“You don’t owe her one.”
“I know.”
“Forgiveness does not require access.”
“I know.”
“You can change your mind.”
“I know.”
“Then try.”
She exhaled.
“Okay.”
“But slowly.”
“Mom.”
“I had one more.”
“I knew it.”
“Watch the fountain.”
She hung up on me.
I laughed for five minutes.
By Christmas, Jessamine could sit in the same room with Verity without everybody monitoring their facial expressions.
That was progress.
Not perfection.
Progress.
We had Christmas at my house.
I placed Isaiah’s photograph near the tree.
Verity and Malcolm arrived first.
Emory and Jessamine arrived twenty minutes later.
Late.
Of course.
Jessamine walked in wearing a green maternity dress, one hand beneath her belly.
Verity looked at her.
“You look good.”
Jessamine froze.
Then smiled.
“Thanks.”
No hidden blade.
No comparison.
Just thanks.
Later, while everyone opened gifts, Jessamine handed Verity a small box.
Verity looked suspicious.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a gold ornament shaped like a ring.
Verity stared.
Jessamine swallowed.
“I saw it and thought maybe the theme deserved a better ending.”
The room went quiet.
I almost interfered.
Then I remembered.
Not my moment.
Verity touched the ornament.
“Thank you.”
Jessamine nodded.
Verity stood.
For a second, I thought she was walking away.
Instead she hugged her.
Jessamine’s face collapsed.
She held on.
Emory looked down.
Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder.
I looked toward Isaiah’s photograph.
“You see this?”
I whispered.
Nobody heard.
Maybe he did.
The baby came in March.
A girl.
Jessamine labored for seventeen hours.
Emory called me at four in the morning.
“She’s asking for you.”
I drove to the hospital in the dark.
When I entered the room, Jessamine looked exhausted.
Her hair was damp.
Her face was swollen from crying.
“I can’t do it.”
I took her hand.
“Yes, you can.”
“I want to go home.”
“Can’t recommend that.”
She laughed and cried at once.
Then another contraction hit.
She squeezed my hand hard enough to make my rings bite my skin.
“Why did you people do this more than once?”
“I had two children before common sense developed.”
She laughed again.
Hours later, the baby arrived.
Small.
Loud.
Perfectly furious.
The nurse placed her against Jessamine’s chest.
Everything in Jessamine’s face changed.
Fear.
Wonder.
Love.
Terror.
Disbelief.
She looked at me.
“She’s mine.”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yes.”
Emory stood beside the bed crying openly.
Isaiah’s son.
Always pretending he had inherited none of his father’s softness.
Then Jessamine said, “Her name is Iris.”
I had not known the final choice.
“Iris,” I repeated.
“Do you like it?”
“Beautiful.”
She looked at Emory.
He nodded.
Then Jessamine said, “Her middle name is Verity.”
I stopped breathing.
Emory smiled through tears.
“You didn’t tell her?”
“No.”
Jessamine looked nervous.
“We asked Verity first.”
My eyes filled.
“She said yes?”
“She cried for twenty minutes.”
“That sounds like her.”
Jessamine looked down at the baby.
“I wanted her to have the name of somebody who knows how to forgive without letting people walk all over her.”
That sentence broke me.
I leaned over and kissed Jessamine’s forehead.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not giving up on me.”
I straightened.
“I almost did.”
She looked surprised.
“You should know that.”
“Okay.”
“There were days I wanted Emory to leave you.”
Her eyes filled.
“Okay.”
“There were days I thought you would destroy my family.”
She nodded.
“I almost did.”
“Yes.”
I took her hand.
“But you stopped.”
She cried.
“So don’t thank me for doing all the work.
You did some.”
“Some?”
“Don’t get proud.”
She laughed.
Two hours later, Verity arrived.
She entered quietly carrying flowers.
Jessamine looked at her from the hospital bed.
“Do you want to meet your namesake?”
Verity started crying immediately.
“You’re so annoying.”
Jessamine laughed.
Emory placed the baby in his sister’s arms.
Verity looked down.
I watched Jessamine watching her.
Once, that sight would have hurt her.
Verity receiving attention.
Verity being loved.
Verity holding something precious.
I watched carefully.
No tightening mouth.
No hard eyes.
No calculation.
Jessamine smiled.
A tired, genuine smile.
“She likes you.”
“Obviously,” Verity whispered.
“Don’t start.”
They laughed.
I stepped into the hallway because suddenly I needed air.
I stood beside the vending machines and cried.
Not because everything was fixed.
It wasn’t.
Families are never fixed.
They are maintained.
Like houses.
Like gardens.
Like marriages.
Like trust.
Months passed.
Iris grew.
Jessamine struggled.
Of course she did.
Nobody becomes emotionally healthy because a baby arrives.
There were nights she called me crying.
Days she snapped at Emory.
One terrible afternoon when she accused him of preferring my house because dinner was always ready and nobody was screaming.
But something had changed.
She came back afterward.
She apologized.
Without adding but.
That word had once ruined every apology she offered.
I’m sorry, but you made me angry.
I’m sorry, but Verity has everything.
I’m sorry, but your mother hit me.
Now she learned to end the sentence.
I’m sorry.
Then change something.
Emory changed too.
He stopped treating conflict as catastrophe.
When Jessamine became angry, he did not immediately surrender.
When he was wrong, he admitted it.
When he needed space, he took it without threatening to leave.
They started counseling.
Not because their marriage was failing.
Because they wanted to stop repeating what had nearly broken it.
One Sunday afternoon, nearly a year after the engagement party, everybody came to my house for Iris’s first family birthday celebration.
Her actual birthday was still several days away, but schedules are schedules.
Verity and Malcolm brought balloons.
Emory brought folding chairs.
Jessamine brought dessert.
She carried it through the front door herself.
A chocolate fountain.
I stared.
She froze.
“Oh.”
Verity came around the corner.
“What?”
Jessamine looked at the fountain.
Then at me.
“Was this a bad idea?”
For one second, none of us moved.
Then Verity laughed.
Not politely.
Not nervously.
She laughed so hard she leaned against the wall.
Emory walked in behind his wife.
“What happened?”
Verity pointed.
He saw the fountain.
“Oh, Lord.”
Malcolm came from the kitchen.
“What?”
He saw it too.
“No.”
That made Verity laugh harder.
Jessamine began laughing.
Then Emory.
Then Malcolm.
I tried to remain dignified.
I lasted perhaps six seconds.
Soon all of us were laughing in my hallway while Iris stared from her carrier as if she had been born into a family of fools.
Jessamine wiped her eyes.
“I really didn’t think this through.”
“No,” I said.
“You did not.”
“I can put it back in the car.”
Verity straightened.
“No.”
Jessamine looked at her.
“Keep it.”
“Are you sure?”
Verity smiled.
“Yeah.”
We set it on the dessert table.
Not marble.
I had learned something too.
Jessamine plugged it in.
The motor started.
Chocolate climbed.
I watched her hands.
She noticed.
“Seriously?”
“Instinct.”
“I’m offended.”
“You’ll survive.”
She smiled.
Verity came beside her with a bowl of strawberries.
For a second, the two women stood exactly where memory had left them a year before.
One beside a fountain.
One watching.
But everything else had changed.
Jessamine picked up a strawberry.
Dipped it.
Then held it toward Verity.
“Peace offering?”
Verity accepted it.
“Temporary ceasefire.”
“Fair.”
They smiled.
Emory came to stand beside me.
“You happy?”
I looked at him.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A normal one.”
“Then yes.”
He put an arm around me.
Across the room, Jessamine lifted Iris from her carrier.
The baby reached immediately for the fountain.
Everybody shouted at once.
“No!”
Iris began crying.
Jessamine laughed.
“Apparently she takes after me.”
“Do not put that curse on the child,” I said.
More laughter.
Later, after cake and gifts, after Iris fell asleep against Emory’s chest, after Malcolm started loading dishes into my dishwasher incorrectly and I had to correct him, Jessamine found me alone on the back porch.
Evening had turned the yard blue.
She sat beside me.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “Do you remember what you told me that night?”
“What night?”
“The engagement party.”
I remembered every word.
“You broke her engagement chocolate fountain.
Sweet revenge is coming, and it won’t be sweet for you.”
I winced.
“Not my finest literary moment.”
She smiled.
“I thought you were going to destroy my life.”
“I considered several dramatic options.”
“I believe you.”
She looked through the glass door.
Inside, Verity was covering sleeping Iris with a blanket.
Emory stood beside her.
Jessamine watched them.
“I thought revenge meant you’d make everybody hate me.”
“I was angry enough to want that.”
“What changed?”
I considered the question.
“You did.”
She looked at me.
“Not immediately.”
“Obviously.”
“I started by wanting you punished.”
“And?”
“Then I realized punishment wasn’t what Verity needed.”
“What did she need?”
“Her party back.”
Jessamine frowned.
“You couldn’t give her that.”
“No.”
I pointed through the window.
“But I could refuse to let one ugly night become the story of our family.”
She stared inside.
“I almost made it that.”
“Yes.”
“I still feel ashamed.”
“Good.”
She looked offended.
I smiled.
“Shame has a purpose if you don’t build a house in it.”
She considered that.
“Another greeting card?”
“Maybe I’ll start a company.”
She laughed.
Then she became serious.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself completely.”
“That isn’t the goal.”
“What is?”
“To become somebody who wouldn’t do it again.”
Her eyes filled.
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
That was the sweetest sentence I had ever spoken to her.
I know.
Once, Emory had said those words to me when he finally believed the truth.
Now I could say them about his wife.
I knew.
Not because she promised.
Because I had watched.
Month after month.
Choice after choice.
Apology after apology.
Board after board across that bridge.
Jessamine leaned her head briefly against my shoulder.
“Thank you.”
I let it rest there.
Then I said, “Don’t get chocolate on my dress.”
She sat up.
“I am nowhere near the fountain.”
“History matters.”
She laughed.
Inside, Iris woke.
Her little face scrunched.
Jessamine heard the cry before anyone else.
She stood immediately.
I watched her go through the door.
Watched her lift her daughter.
Watched the baby settle against her chest.
Jessamine kissed the top of Iris’s head.
No hesitation.
No resentment.
No child begging to be noticed.
No little girl wondering whether her mother would remember her birthday.
The cycle had not magically vanished.
Jessamine would have to break it again tomorrow.
And the next day.
And perhaps every day after that.
But that is how cycles break.
Not once.
Repeatedly.
Verity came outside carrying two strawberries.
She handed one to me.
Chocolate covered half of it.
I looked suspiciously through the window.
“Jessamine make this?”
“Yes.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Mom.”
“I’m asking reasonable questions.”
Verity sat beside me.
We ate.
The chocolate was rich and warm.
For a moment, I remembered that strawberry rolling through the puddle toward my black evening shoe.
I remembered the ruined dress.
The slap.
The cake.
The threat whispered beside Jessamine’s ear.
Sweet revenge is coming.
I had meant pain.
That was the truth.
I had wanted Jessamine to feel what my daughter felt.
Humiliated.
Small.
Unwanted.
But pain is a poor inheritance.
Give it to somebody and they usually pass it on.
Jessamine had been carrying hers for years.
From her mother to her.
From her to Emory.
From her to Verity.
It could have gone from her to Iris.
That was where we stopped it.
Maybe that was revenge after all.
Not against Jessamine.
Against everything that had taught her love was scarce.
Against the belief that one woman’s joy stole from another.
Against the lie that family loyalty required blindness.
Against the habit of calling silence peace.
Against the old pain that expected to live forever simply because nobody had challenged its lease.
Verity leaned against me.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“The fountain is actually kind of nice.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
She smiled.
“She’s changed.”
“Yes.”
“You like her now.”
I took another bite.
“I did not say that.”
“Mom.”
“I reserve my rights.”
She laughed.
Through the window, Jessamine looked toward us.
She raised one eyebrow.
I raised mine back.
Then she smiled.
So did I.
Verity saw.
“Got you.”
“Eat your strawberry.”
She did.
The sky darkened.
Inside my house, my son held his daughter.
My daughter stood beside her husband.
My daughter-in-law poured more chocolate into the fountain she once would have destroyed simply because somebody else was happy.
And on my ears, Isaiah’s emeralds caught the porch light.
I touched one.
I could almost hear him.
Leave the door open and wait.
It had taken me long enough to understand him.
Sometimes the door is not for letting somebody escape.
Sometimes it is so they can find their way back.
I looked at my family through the glass.
Imperfect.
Scarred.
Still learning.
Still ours.
The chocolate fountain ran until the last strawberry was gone.
May you like
Nobody pushed it over.
And that, in the end, was sweet enough.
