I asked Sophie one question: what was the lady’s name? “Mrs. Alvarez,” she said. “She cries a lot.” That was the name of the woman who ran the red light. I had seen it on the police report. Graham came downstairs, saw our faces, and his smile fell. He sat on the bottom step and told me everything, because there was no point hiding it anymore.

The driver, a widow in her sixties, had been returning from her husband’s grave and was in a daze when she hit me. She had no insurance and no family, and she was terrified of prison. Graham had gone to her house the first night to shout at her. Instead, he found her sobbing, unable to eat. Since then, he had been bringing her groceries and driving her to her court dates, and he had never known how to tell me.

I was furious that he hid it, and I told him so. But I asked to meet her. Two days later, Mrs. Alvarez stood on my porch, shaking, and apologized for ten minutes straight. I did not forgive her at once. I told her honestly that I was in pain and angry. Yet I also saw that she was grieving far more than I was.

Sophie had kept the secret because Graham had made her promise, and I told her she did the right thing by telling me. The court gave Mrs. Alvarez community service, and my insurance covered my surgery. Graham and I talked for hours about honesty, and he promised never to hide anything again. By spring, Mrs. Alvarez brought us tomatoes from her garden, and I walked to her gate to accept them.