Chapter 17
The funeral was three days later.
We didn’t go.
Margaret and a few distant cousins were the only ones there.
The papers wrote a small obituary.
Helen Carter, 69, beloved mother and grandmother.
It didn’t mention the prison.
Or the abuse.
Or the trial.
It just said she was survived by her son, David, and her grandson, Leo.
David read it.
He didn’t say anything.
He just folded it up and threw it away.
We didn’t talk about Helen much after that.
Life moved on.
As it always does.
Leo had his first big school dance.
We helped him pick out a suit.
David taught him how to tie a tie.
I taught him how to ask a girl to dance without being nervous.
He came home that night grinning from ear to ear.
He’d danced with three different girls.
And he’d had his first kiss.
On the cheek.
But still.
David and I high-fived each other after he went to bed.
Our little boy was growing up.
That summer, we took a big trip.
We went to Italy.
Two weeks.
Rome.
Florence.
Venice.
We ate too much pasta.
We threw coins in the Trevi Fountain.
We got lost in the back streets of Venice and ended up having the best meal of our lives at a tiny restaurant with six tables and a menu written on a chalkboard.
We stood on a bridge at sunset.
Leo was leaning over the rail, watching the gondolas go by.
David put his arm around my waist.
“Remember when we thought we’d never be happy again?” he said. “After the party. After the arrest. After all of it.”
I nodded.
“I remember,” I said.
“Look at us now,” he said. “We’re in Italy. Our son is happy. We’re happy. Who would have thought?”
“Me,” I said, smiling. “I always knew. I just had to fight for it.”
He kissed me.
Long.
Slow.
Right there on the bridge.
A tourist took our photo.
She emailed it to us later.
It’s framed on our mantel now.
The three of us.
Sunset behind us.
Smiling.
Perfect.
That fall, David and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary.
We renewed our vows.
Small ceremony.
Just family.
My parents.
David’s aunt Margaret—we’d reconciled with her, slowly, over the years. She’d apologized for not stepping in that day. For not helping Leo. She’d spent the last three years volunteering at the foundation, making amends the only way she knew how.
Leo was the best man.
He gave a speech.
It was short.
And perfect.
“My parents are the best,” he said, standing up straight in his little suit. “They love each other. And they love me. And they taught me that no matter how bad things get, if you stick together, you can get through anything. I want to be just like them when I grow up.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
After the ceremony, we danced.
David held me close.
“Ten years,” he said. “Ten crazy, wonderful, terrible, perfect years. I’d do it all again. Every second. Even the bad parts. Because they led me here. To you. To Leo. To this.”
“Me too,” I said.
And I meant it.
Every terrible thing we’d been through had only made us stronger.
Closer.
More grateful for every good day.
Because we knew how quickly it could all be taken away.
That night, after everyone had gone home, we sat on the porch of our little house.
The stars were bright.
Crickets chirped.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
David took my hand.
“Remember when you locked down the house that day?” he said, smiling. “When you pulled out that black card and had security throw my mom out? I was so angry at you at first. So scared. I thought you’d lost your mind.”
I laughed.
“I remember.”
“But you know what?” he said. “That was the moment I knew. The moment I really knew. That you would do anything for our son. That you would burn the whole world down before you let anyone hurt him. And that you were the strongest, bravest, most amazing woman I’d ever met. I fell in love with you all over again that day. Right then and there.”
He kissed my knuckles.
“Thank you,” he said. “For saving us. All of us.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
And then we sat.
May you like
And we watched the stars.
And we were happy.
