Chapter 7
Doreen appealed.
Of course she did. She hired a new lawyer. She claimed her first lawyer was incompetent. She claimed Tyler had been manipulated. She claimed Chloe had been coached by me.
The appeal took six months. Six months of stress. Six months of Chloe asking, "Is she coming back?" Six months of me lying awake at night, wondering if the worst could happen.
But the evidence was too strong. The appeal was denied.
Doreen would serve her full sentence. Eight years. Maybe more, if the additional charges — witness tampering, fraud — stuck.
I got the call on a Tuesday. I was in the yard, planting tomatoes with Chloe. She had dirt on her nose. Barnacle was digging a hole nearby.
"Mr. Stallone," the lawyer said. "The appeal was denied. She's not coming back."
I closed my eyes. "Thank you."
Chloe looked up. "Who was that, Daddy?"
I knelt down. I wiped the dirt from her nose. "That was the lawyer, baby. Doreen — she's not coming back. Not for a long, long time."
Chloe was quiet. She poked a tomato seedling with her finger. Then she said, "Good."
Just that. Good. No celebration. No anger. Just — good.
That was Chloe. She didn't hold onto hate. She just wanted to be safe.
That afternoon, she did something she'd never done before. She went outside, got on her bike, and rode down the street — alone. No training wheels. No me holding the seat. Just her, and the wind, and the sound of her laughing.
I stood at the end of the driveway and watched. My heart was in my throat. But I didn't call her back. I let her go.
She rode to the end of the block. She turned. She waved. She rode back.
"I did it, Daddy!" she yelled. "I didn't fall!"
I caught her as she skidded to a stop. I lifted her up and spun her around. "You did it, baby. You did it."
She hugged my neck. "I'm not scared anymore."
I held her. I didn't say anything. I just held her, and I cried — quiet tears, happy tears, tears of relief.
That night, I wrote in the journal I'd started. A letter to Chloe, for when she was older. I told her about that morning. About the milk. About the slap. About the fear. About the healing. I told her I was sorry. I told her I loved her. I told her she was the bravest person I'd ever known.
I put the letter in a box. With the drawing Tyler had made. With the first report card she'd brought home. With a photo of Barnacle.
Someday, I'd give it to her. Someday, when she was old enough to understand.
May you like
But not yet. For now, she was eight years old. She had a bike. She had a three-legged dog. She had a father who loved her more than anything.
And that was enough.
