Chapter 6
We picked Ethan up from Mia’s house after the hearing.
He ran to Sarah when we walked in, yelling “Mommy!” at the top of his lungs, then stopped when he saw me, his head tilted.
“Grandpa?” he said.
He held up a drawing he’d made, three stick figures holding hands, one big, one medium, one small, all with big smiles.
“Mia said you won. Does that mean the bad man can’t hurt us anymore?”
I knelt down so I was eye level with him, took the drawing gently.
“That’s exactly what it means, kiddo,” I said.
“The bad man can’t come near us ever again. You’re safe now. We all are.”
Ethan grinned, threw his arms around my neck, hugging me tight.
He smelled like apple juice and crayons, just like a four-year-old should.
I hugged him back, my throat tight.
For the first time in 22 years, I didn’t feel like half a person.
That night, we had a small celebration at my house.
Mia came over, brought a cake she’d baked with blue frosting and a tiny silver dinosaur on top.
Mark came too, brought a bottle of champagne, even though none of us drank much.
We sat around the kitchen table, eating cake, laughing, as Ethan told us all about the dinosaur movie he’d watched with Mia that afternoon.
After Mia and Mark left, Sarah and I sat on the back porch, watching the stars come out.
The locket was around her neck, catching the moonlight.
She twisted it between her fingers, quiet for a long time.
“Mom always loved stargazing,” she said.
She pointed up at the sky, at the bright cluster of stars right above us.
“She used to take me out here when we lived in Fort Worth, when Richard was gone. She’d point out the constellations, tell me stories about them. She said the people we love who are gone become stars, so they can watch over us.”
I looked up at the sky, at the same cluster of stars Lila and I used to watch from the fire escape of our first apartment, back when we were 22, young and stupid and in love, before the fight, before the loss, before all the years apart.
“I think she’s up there right now,” Sarah said.
Her voice was soft.
“Watching us. Happy we found each other.”
I put my arm around her, pulled her close.
“I think you’re right,” I said.
The next week was a blur of good news.
Ethan’s doctors called to say the trial treatment was working better than they’d ever expected.
His cancer markers were dropping fast.
They said if he kept responding this well, he could be in remission by the end of the year.
The GoFundMe Mia had started hit $75,000, more than enough to cover the rest of Ethan’s medical bills, plus enough to set up a college fund for him.
Dozens of my regular customers came by the shop when I reopened, bringing cards and gifts for Sarah and Ethan, saying they’d seen the story on the local news.
A reporter from the Dallas paper did a piece on us, the locket, the long search, the happy ending.
We got letters from all over the country, from people who’d lost family, from people who’d found them again, all saying they were rooting for us.
Richard was arrested a week after the hearing, charged with embezzlement, child endangerment, and three counts of violating the restraining order.
His lawyer tried to get him out on bail, but the judge denied it, saying he was a flight risk and a danger to our family.
The DA said he was looking at up to 10 years in prison if convicted on all counts.
Mark said with the evidence we had, it was almost a guaranteed conviction.
Sarah started taking classes at the local community college that fall, part-time, studying to be a pediatric nurse.
She said after everything Ethan had been through, she wanted to help other sick kids and their families.
I converted the empty apartment above my shop into a small two-bedroom for her and Ethan, fixed it up with new paint, new furniture, a big backyard for Ethan to play in.
Ethan picked out dinosaur sheets for his bed, a T-Rex lamp for his nightstand, a chalkboard wall where he drew dinosaurs all over every day.
We visited Lila’s grave in Fort Worth on what would have been her 45th birthday.
We brought her favorite flowers—white roses, the same ones I’d given her on our first date.
Sarah brought the letter Lila had written her for her 22nd birthday, read it out loud at the grave, her voice soft but steady.
I brought the old polaroid of us in our first apartment, left it tucked under the flowers.
Sarah took the locket off, held it against the headstone for a minute, then put it back on.
“Thank you, Mom,” she said.
Her voice was quiet.
“For keeping me safe. For sending me to him. We’re okay now. We’re happy.”
We stood there for a long time, quiet, as the sun set over the cemetery, painting the sky pink and orange.
May you like
I held Sarah’s hand, felt the locket warm against her skin under my fingers.
Somewhere, I knew Lila was smiling.
