Chapter 7
Coach Thompson did not panic.
That helped.
My dad did.
That did not.
He paced the school parking lot with one hand in his hair while Coach made calls.
“She’s going to ruin him,” Dad said.
Aunt Laura, who had come to pick me up, snapped, “She has been trying to ruin him. Welcome to the meeting.”
Dad stopped.
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I was tired of sorry.
But I was also starting to understand something.
Sorry was only useless if it stood alone.
Dad was still standing with me.
That mattered.
Coach called the league director, Mr. Alvarez, and told him he had the full footage.
Mr. Alvarez had already seen Karen’s edited clip.
His voice was loud enough through the phone that I could hear pieces.
Serious allegation.
Need review.
Child safety.
Coach’s face stayed calm.
“I agree,” he said. “That’s why you need the full security video and witness statements.”
A pause.
“Yes, today.”
Another pause.
“No, Ethan is not suspended.”
I exhaled.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.
Coach ended the call and looked at Dad.
“Karen is trying to isolate him from baseball. We won’t let her.”
Dad nodded.
“Thank you.”
Coach looked at him carefully.
“You need to stop thanking people and start building a wall.”
Dad swallowed.
“I know.”
“A legal wall. A school wall. A home wall. A family wall. She is using every gap.”
I looked at Coach.
He sounded like someone who had seen this before.
Maybe too many times.
At Aunt Laura’s house that night, Dad made a list.
Not on his phone.
On paper.
He wrote at the top:
KEEP ETHAN SAFE.
Under it:
Change locks.
Attorney.
School passwords.
Therapy for Ethan.
Therapy for me.
Police follow-up.
League statement.
Mom’s belongings.
Karen’s access removed.
I stared at the words Mom’s belongings.
Dad saw me looking.
“She has more of your mom’s things in the attic,” he said.
My chest tightened.
“What things?”
“I don’t know all of them.”
“Why?”
His face twisted.
“Because I let Karen pack them.”
I looked away.
That hurt.
Maybe more than he expected.
Maybe exactly as much.
Dad’s voice broke.
“I couldn’t look at them after Sarah died.”
I whispered, “I could have.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
Aunt Laura stepped in from the kitchen.
“Tomorrow, we go get them.”
Dad looked at her.
“We?”
“Yes. With police standby if needed. Karen is not allowed there.”
I said, “I want to come.”
Dad shook his head immediately.
“No.”
I stiffened.
Then he stopped himself.
He took a breath.
“I’m sorry. I reacted from fear.”
Aunt Laura nodded once, approving.
Dad tried again.
“I don’t want you hurt by what we find. But they are your mother’s things too. If you want to come, we make it safe.”
I looked at him.
“I want to come.”
“Then you come.”
The next morning, we went home.
My home.
Except it didn’t feel like home yet.
The locks had been changed.
Police waited outside.
Dad opened the door slowly.
The house smelled like lemon cleaner and Karen’s perfume.
I hated it.
In the living room, the mantel looked wrong.
Karen had removed two of Mom’s pictures months ago.
She said it was “healthier.”
Dad stared at the empty spaces.
“I let her do that,” he whispered.
Aunt Laura touched the mantel.
“Then put them back.”
We went to the attic.
Boxes lined the wall.
Some labeled SARAH.
Some had been crossed out and rewritten as DONATE.
My hands shook.
Aunt Laura opened the first box.
Photo albums.
Christmas ornaments.
Mom’s college sweatshirt.
The one Karen told me was gone.
I grabbed it and held it to my face.
It smelled like dust now.
Not Mom.
But still.
Still.
Dad sat on the attic floor and cried.
I didn’t comfort him right away.
I held the sweatshirt.
Then I sat beside him.
“She would be mad at you,” I said.
He nodded, crying harder.
“I know.”
“But she would still want you to fix it.”
“I know.”
Aunt Laura opened another box.
Inside were letters.
Cards.
A small wooden jewelry box.
And a sealed envelope with my name.
Ethan.
Mom’s handwriting.
My heart stopped.
Dad whispered, “I didn’t know that was there.”
I picked it up carefully.
My fingers trembled so badly Aunt Laura sat beside me.
I opened it.
The letter was short.
My sweet Ethan,
If you are reading this when you are older, I hope you still love baseball. I hope you still laugh loudly. I hope your dad remembers that grief is not something to pack away. It is love with nowhere to sit.
Do not let anyone make you feel weak for missing me.
Missing someone is proof that love stayed.
Play brave, my catcher.
Love,
Mom
The attic blurred.
I folded over the letter and sobbed.
Dad reached toward me, then stopped.
“Can I hug you?”
I nodded.
He held me while I cried into Mom’s sweatshirt.
Aunt Laura cried too.
Even the officer at the attic stairs looked away.
That moment should have been peaceful.
It wasn’t.
Because downstairs, the front door slammed.
May you like
A woman’s voice screamed, “Where is he?”
Karen.
