Chapter 9
We got married in the backyard.
Small. Simple. No church. No hundreds of guests. No drama.
Just us. Margaret. A few close friends. Lily and Mia, in matching white dresses, throwing flower petals.
I wore a simple white dress. Adrian wore a suit. Margaret walked me down the aisle — she'd become the mother I'd never had.
We wrote our own vows. Adrian cried when he said his. I cried when I said mine. Lily cried because everyone else was crying. Mia ate a petal.
When the judge pronounced us husband and wife, Adrian kissed me. And the girls tackled us both in a hug.
It was perfect.
That night, after the girls were asleep, we sat on the porch. The wedding lights were still glowing. The garden smelled like jasmine.
"Mrs. Hale," Adrian said, kissing my hand. "I like the sound of that."
"Mrs. Hale," I repeated. "It sounds like home."
He pulled me close. "Do you ever think about that day? At the church? When you walked in?"
"Every day," I said. "I was so scared. I thought you'd turn me away. I thought Victoria had won."
"I could never turn you away. I could never turn them away. You were the missing piece. I was half-alive, Clara. You and the girls — you brought me back."
I leaned my head on his shoulder. "We brought each other back."
We sat there in the dark, holding each other, listening to the crickets. Somewhere in the house, a baby monitor crackled. Mia was stirring. Adrian would go to her in a minute. He always did — midnight feedings, bad dreams, stuffed animals lost under the bed. He was there. Always.
A year after the wedding, I graduated from nursing school. Adrian threw me a party. Lily made me a card. Mia drew a picture. Margaret cried.
I started working at the local hospital — in the maternity ward. I helped new mothers. I held their babies. I told them they were strong. I told them they could do hard things.
Because I knew. I'd been there. I'd been the scared mother with no money and no hope. And I'd survived.
Eleanor, from prison, got sick. Cancer. Adrian went to see her. I didn't go. I waited at home. He came back late, his eyes red.
"She apologized," he said. "She said she was sorry. She said she was wrong. I told her I forgave her. But I can't forget. I don't know if I can ever have her in our lives. Not after what she did to you. To the girls."
I held him. "That's okay. You don't have to decide tonight."
He never did decide. Eleanor died six months later. Adrian went to the funeral. He grieved. He moved on. It was complicated and messy and human. And I was there for all of it.
Victoria appealed twice. Both denied. She would serve her full sentence.
And us — we lived. We loved. We built.
Lily started kindergarten. Mia started preschool. They were happy. Healthy. Safe. They knew they were loved. They knew their daddy would never leave. They knew their mommy would always fight for them.
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And I — I was no longer the scared girl in the shelter. I was a wife. A mother. A nurse. A survivor.
I was home.
