A few hours later, I’m hugging Cecelia goodbye in the small entryway of her townhouse, still sniffling in spite of my best efforts. By this point, my eyelids probably resemble throw pillows, but at least some of the tears I’ve shed over the last hour have been tears of relief, because Cecelia—generous, wonderful person that she is—has forgiven me.

After I’d finished my breakfast, I’d gotten serious about dealing with the things I’m actually in control of in this awful situation, and this confrontation with Cecelia had been right at the top. Thankfully, she wasn’t working today, and had eagerly agreed to my request to meet, offering up her own place—as though she could sense that I was cautious about being out.

It hadn’t been easy, apologizing to Cecelia—no excuses, and only explanations insofar as they helped her to understand how all this had happened. I’d told her that I would do whatever I could to help her repair any fallout for the shop; I’d reassured her that I would answer for any work I had done while I’d been working for her. I would accept if she never wanted me in the shop again.

And I’d thanked her for all that she’d done for me, for trusting and believing in me. I’d told her I was sorry to have let her down so completely.

“Oh, Meg,” she’d said, her eyes soft and mischievous. “I don’t mean to be ironic, but . . . listen, you made a mistake.”

Still, Cecelia has a business to run, and together we make some decisions about how best to minimize the damage. As awful as it is to consider, I’ll avoid the shop for a while, at the very least until the dust settles, and maybe for longer. If Cecelia gets calls from past clients, she will gently remind them that I was employed as an independent contractor and have sole responsibility for the work I produced. She will send them to the contact form on my website, and when she can, she’ll give me a heads-up about anyone who she thinks might be particularly irate, though thankfully, there’s been nothing that extreme as of yet.

“This doesn’t mean we won’t see each other,” Cecelia says, squeezing me one more time before pulling back. “Come over next week, and we’ll all have dinner.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Meg,” she says firmly. “You’re more to me than the letters, okay?”

I swallow back fresh tears at this kindness, barely managing a genuine nod and smile.