Chapter 8
After the trial, life should have been perfect.
But healing isn't linear.
Lily started having nightmares again. Not about Victoria — about being taken away. She'd wake up screaming, "Don't let them take me!" I'd hold her for hours. Mia, too young to understand, sensed the tension and became clingy.
Adrian and I — we fought. Not often. But enough. About small things. About whether the windows were locked. About whether we needed more security. About whether I was overprotective. About whether he was too trusting.
We went to therapy. Together. And separately. We talked about the trauma. The grief. The two years we'd lost.
Slowly, it got better.
Eleanor, from prison, wrote letters. At first, Adrian didn't open them. Then one day, he did. She was sorry. She was sick. She wanted to see him.
He didn't go. Not yet. But he didn't throw the letters away either.
Victoria never wrote. She never apologized. She appealed. The appeal was denied.
We moved into a house. A real home. With a yard. With a treehouse Adrian built for Lily. With a swing for Mia. With a garden I planted. With a porch where we sat every evening, watching the sun set.
Margaret came to work for us — as our house manager. She was family now. She'd been there through the worst, and she'd earned every bit of the peace she now enjoyed.
Adrian's business thrived. He'd rebuilt it — without his mother's influence, without Victoria's social climbing. He ran it with integrity. His employees loved him.
I went back to school. I'd always wanted to be a nurse. Adrian offered to pay. I refused at first — I wanted to do it on my own. But he said, "We're a partnership now. Your dream is my dream." So I let him. And I studied. And I worked. And I was good at it.
The girls thrived. Lily started preschool. She was bright and bold and fearless — nothing like the shy little girl who'd hidden behind my leg at the church. Mia was talking now, full sentences, and she never stopped. She called Adrian "Dada" and me "Mama" and Margaret "Gigi."
Life was good.
But there was one thing missing. One thing I needed before I could truly move on.
I needed to see Victoria. Not to gloat. Not to forgive. But to close the door. To tell her, face to face, that she hadn't won. That we were happy. That her lies had only made us stronger.
Adrian didn't want me to go. "She doesn't deserve your time," he said.
"I need to do this," I told him. "For me. For closure."
He drove me to the prison. He waited in the car.
I sat across from Victoria through the glass. She looked older. Tired. Her hair was flat. Her nails were bare.
She picked up the phone. "Come to gloat?"
"No," I said. "I came to tell you that I'm happy. That my children are happy. That Adrian loves us. That you lost. And I forgive you. Not because you deserve it. Because I deserve to be free of you."
She stared at me. For a long moment, something flickered in her eyes. Regret, maybe. Or envy.
Then she hung up. She stood up. She walked away.
I didn't see her again.
I walked out of that prison into the sunlight. Adrian was waiting. He took my hand.
"Done?" he said.
May you like
"Done," I said.
And I was.
