Chapter 12
Dad was released after serving part of his sentence.
Thomas told me first.
“He wants to see you.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“I expected that.”
But Dad did not push.
That surprised me.
Months passed.
Then a package arrived.
No return address.
Inside was my childhood spelling trophy.
The one Dad had thrown away after Dylan cried because he did not win.
I remembered that day suddenly.
The blue ribbon.
Dylan screaming.
Dad saying, “Let him have this.”
Me placing the trophy in the trash while Mom watched from the doorway, furious and silent.
But she had saved it.
Somehow.
Dad’s note was short.
Your mother kept it. I should have let you keep every victory.
I sat on the floor and cried for the girl who learned winning hurt someone else.
I did not call him.
But I did not throw the note away.
Healing is irritatingly complicated.
Dylan remained in prison.
He sent one message through his lawyer asking for a restorative justice meeting.
I refused.
Not with anger.
With clarity.
Maybe one day.
Not then.
Maybe never.
My life had grown beyond them.
Marcus and I remarried in a courthouse on a rainy Tuesday.
No spectacle.
No white dress.
Maya cried anyway.
Thomas officiated because he had gotten licensed online and took it too seriously.
I wore a blue suit.
Marcus wore the tie I always loved.
When the judge asked if I took him freely, I smiled.
“Yes,” I said. “Freely.”
That word mattered.
Afterward, we ate tacos in my kitchen.
The cabinets still had labels.
Marcus refused to remove them.
“They’re part of the aesthetic.”
“The aesthetic is brain injury chic?”
“The aesthetic is survival with organization.”
May you like
I laughed so hard my head hurt.
Worth it.
