“You’re allowed to have complicated feelings. You’re allowed to need time.”
She leaned against me.
For a long while, we stayed that way.
Eventually, she whispered, “Grandpa would have been so angry.”
I looked toward Arthur’s photograph.
“Yes,” I said. “But I think he’d be proud of you.”
That summer, Emily began meeting David in a family counselor’s office.
At first, their conversations were short.
She made him explain why he’d threatened her.
She asked whether he really believed I was losing my memory.
And she asked why he had watched Brooke humiliate me without stopping her.
David didn’t always know how to answer.
But he stopped defending himself.
He told her plainly that he had been selfish and frightened of financial failure.
He admitted that he had chosen to protect his marriage and lifestyle instead of protecting his daughter and mother.
Emily listened.
She didn’t forgive him immediately.
She didn’t have to.
Over time, they began rebuilding a relationship based on honesty rather than fear.
I kept my distance.
I didn’t need to control their healing.
And I refused to make David’s recovery the center of my life.
Instead, I began doing things I had postponed for years.
I joined a local gardening group.
I returned to the library where I had once volunteered.
I took a short trip to the coast with Margaret and Caroline.
For the first time since Arthur’s death, I slept through an entire night without waking to worry about somebody else’s problems.
In September, Emily turned eighteen.
We celebrated with a small dinner in my backyard.
There were paper lanterns hanging from the maple tree, homemade lemonade, and a cake covered in tiny sugar flowers.
