Chapter 6

Carla's trial came the summer after my freshman year.

I testified. I told the court about the dress. About the lace. About the college fund. About the years of being second-best. About working two jobs while Mia got everything.

Carla's lawyer attacked me. Called me greedy. Called me a liar. Said I'd manipulated my father. Said I'd destroyed a marriage.

But the bank records didn't lie. The signatures didn't lie. Mia's testimony didn't lie.

The jury convicted her. Fraud. Grand theft. Embezzlement. Four years in prison.

I sat in the courtroom, Dad's hand in mine, and I listened to the sentence. I didn't feel triumph. I felt — closure. Like a book I'd been carrying for years was finally closed.

Afterward, Mia was waiting outside. She'd testified for the prosecution. She looked thinner. Tired. But her eyes were clear.

"She tried to call me," Mia said. "From jail. She wanted me to lie. To say I made it all up. I told her no. I told her I was done."

I looked at my stepsister. This girl who'd cut up my dress. Who'd thrown away my mother's lace. Who'd spent years being cruel. And now — here she was. Free. On her own. Building something.

"I'm proud of you," I said. I surprised myself by meaning it.

Mia's eyes filled with tears. "Really?"

"Really. You did the hard thing. You told the truth. That takes courage."

She hugged me. It was awkward. Quick. But it was real.

I didn't hug her back at first. Then I did. Just for a second.

We pulled apart. We both looked embarrassed. Then we laughed. Nervous. Unsure. But — real.

"Want to get coffee?" I said. "My treat. You can tell me about community college."

Mia smiled. It was small. But it was genuine. "I'd like that."

We went. We sat in a coffee shop for two hours. She told me about her classes — she was studying nursing. About her job. About her roommate. About how hard it was, working and studying, but how good it felt to earn her own money.

I told her about State. About the Lace Project. About my friends. About Helen, Dad's girlfriend.

By the end, something had shifted. Not forgiveness. Not exactly. But — understanding. Two girls, both used by Carla. Both survivors. In our own ways.

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We started meeting for coffee once a month. Then twice. Then — we were friends. Sort of. Tentative. Careful. But real.

Dad was thrilled. He never pushed. He just — smiled when Mia came over for dinner. He treated her like a daughter. Because she was, in every way that mattered. A daughter who'd been lost, and was finding her way back.