Chapter 9
After the trial, people expected us to heal quickly.
That is what people do when justice arrives.
They think a verdict closes the wound.
It does not.
It only locks the person who kept cutting.
Mai still hid crackers in drawers.
Linh still watched doors.
I still woke from dreams of brick walls breathing.
But slowly, life grew around the damage.
The girls turned eight.
We held the party in the Caldwells’ backyard.
Two cakes.
Two sets of candles.
Two birthday crowns.
Mai stared at hers.
“For me?”
“For you.”
“And Linh?”
“She has one too.”
Mai looked confused.
“We both get?”
Linh rolled her eyes.
“Yes, Mai. Twins means double everything. Including cake.”
Mai smiled.
When everyone sang, she cried.
Not loudly.
Tears just slipped down her cheeks while the candles flickered.
I crouched beside her.
“Too much?”
She shook her head.
“Good too much.”
So we let it be good too much.
The Caldwells became family again.
Not easily.
Not without hard conversations.
Mr. Caldwell apologized to me one night while we washed dishes.
“I punished you by staying away,” he said.
“I thought seeing Linh would hurt too much. I thought An’s death was your fault.”
I handed him a plate.
“I thought you hated me, so I stopped trying.”
“We were both cowards.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“An would be furious.”
That made me laugh.
Then cry.
He pulled me into an awkward hug that became less awkward when I stopped resisting.
Mrs. Caldwell taught Mai to make soup.
Linh learned to braid her sister’s hair.
I learned that raising twins was not simply doing everything twice.
It was learning two different fears.
Two different laughters.
Two different ways love asked to be shown.
Linh needed reassurance she could stop being the rescuer.
Mai needed proof she was allowed to need things.
One afternoon, I found them in the hallway near a brick wall outside the library.
Mai stood frozen, staring.
Linh held her hand.
I started toward them.
Then stopped.
Linh whispered, “It’s just a wall.”
Mai touched the brick.
“Walls are outside now.”
“That’s right,” Linh said.
“You’re outside.”
Mai nodded.
Then she looked at me.
“I want to go in the library.”
I smiled.
“Then we go in.”
Inside, she picked six books.
All about houses.
All with windows.
That night, I received a letter from prison.
My mother.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I read it with my therapist later.
It was full of apologies that still explained too much.
I was afraid.
I was alone.
I did what I thought was best.
At the bottom, one sentence stood out.
I hope one day Mai understands.
I folded the letter.
“She doesn’t need to understand,” my therapist said.
“No.”
“What does she need?”
I thought of Mai laughing with syrup on her face.
“Childhood.”
So that became the goal.
Not forgiveness.
May you like
Not forgetting.
Childhood.
