I thought my 8-year-old’s spelling bee win would soften my mother-in-law—until she tore her certificate to pieces right in front of her.

The national spelling bee was in Washington D.C. in June.

We all went—me, James, Mia, Clara, even her boyfriend, Tom. We turned it into a big family vacation. We visited the monuments, the museums, ate way too much ice cream, walked until our feet hurt. Lily was bouncing off the walls, excited and nervous all at once.

The competition was three days long. Lily made it through the first two days easily, spelling every word they gave her without a single mistake. By the third day, there were only 10 kids left. Lily was the youngest, by two years.

We were a wreck in the audience. James was squeezing my hand so hard I thought he’d break my fingers. Mia was biting her nails, something she hadn’t done since the trial. Clara was whispering every word under her breath, like she was spelling them right along with Lily.

The ninth kid got his word wrong. It was down to Lily and one other girl, a 12-year-old from Ohio.

The girl went first. She got her word wrong.

It was Lily’s turn. If she spelled her word right, she’d be the national champion.

The announcer looked down at his card.

“Your word is: serendipity.”

Lily took a deep breath. She closed her eyes for half a second, like she was saying a little prayer. Then she opened them, looked out at the crowd, and smiled.

She spelled the word slow, steady, every letter perfect.

The room erupted. The announcer held up the giant trophy, the one with the little golden bee on top. Lily was the 2024 Scripps National Spelling Bee champion.

She ran off the stage, straight into our arms. We were all screaming, crying, hugging her so tight she could barely breathe. Reporters swarmed us, asking questions, taking pictures. Lily just held her trophy, grinning so wide her face must have hurt.

That night, we went out for a fancy dinner to celebrate. Lily ordered the biggest steak on the menu, with extra fries. She wore her medal around her neck the whole time, even when she ate.

Halfway through dinner, the waiter came over with a small envelope.

“For the champion,” he said, smiling.

Lily opened it. Inside was a handwritten note, and a check for $1,000, made out to the children’s literacy charity we’d been donating to.

The note was short.

Congratulations. I’m so proud of you. I’m sorry for everything. I’m getting better. I hope you have the most amazing life. You deserve it.

There was no signature. But we all knew who it was from.

Lily looked at the note, then at us. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look sad. She just looked thoughtful.

“Can we use the money to buy books for kids who don’t have any?” she said.

James nodded, his eyes wet.

“Of course we can, baby,” he said.

Lily folded the note up and put it in her trophy case, the one we’d built for all her awards. She didn’t keep it because she missed Margaret. She kept it because it was proof that people could change. That even the worst mistakes could be followed by something good.

That night, we sat on the balcony of our hotel room, looking out at the Washington Monument, all lit up against the dark sky. Lily was asleep in her bed, the trophy on the nightstand beside her. Mia was inside, watching a movie with Tom.

James put his arm around me, pulling me close.

“Can you believe this?” he said, quiet. “A year and a half ago, I thought we’d lose everything. Now look at us.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder.

“We earned it,” I said. “All of it.”

He kissed the top of my head.

“I love you,” he said. “More than anything.”