Chapter 6
A week later, my lawyer Lila called with good news.
“The prosecution has a slam dunk,” she said, her voice bright over the phone.
“Between the video, the chat logs, the forged documents, Jenna’s cooperation… they don’t even need you to take the stand if all three take plea deals. Which they almost certainly will. No one wants to risk 20 years at trial.”
I sighed, leaning back against my kitchen counter, the weight lifting a little off my shoulders.
I’d been dreading testifying.
Dreading having to relive that night over and over in front of a room full of strangers.
“That’s a relief.”
“One more thing,” Lila said.
“The bank finished investigating the forged debts. All $47,000 is being dismissed. It’s not your responsibility. Your credit score will be fully restored within 30 days.”
I cried then, happy tears, for the first time since all this started.
The last of Tyler’s mess was being cleaned up.
I hung up the phone, grabbed my keys, and walked down the street to the small Mexican grocery store my dad used to take me to.
I was reaching for a bag of corn tortillas when a soft voice behind me made me turn.
“Mia? Is that you?”
Mrs. Lopez.
My dad’s next-door neighbor for 30 years.
The woman who’d brought me chicken soup when I was sick, who’d taught me to make tamales when I was 12, who’d hugged me so hard at my dad’s funeral I could barely breathe.
I hadn’t seen her since the wedding.
Tyler had hated her, said she was “too nosy,” and I’d let him keep me away.
She pulled me into a hug so tight my ribs ached, holding me like she’d never let go.
“Oh, mija, I’ve been so worried about you. I saw what happened in the paper. That boy was no good, I always told your dad that. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
She pulled back, her hand brushing the scar on my forehead, her eyes wet.
“Come over for dinner tonight. I’m making your favorite—chili rellenos, rice and beans, flan for dessert. You need to eat something that doesn’t come from a takeout box.”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“I’d love that.”
That night, I sat at Mrs. Lopez’s kitchen table, the food warm on my plate, the sound of her ranchera radio playing soft in the background.
She told me stories about my dad.
About how he’d built the condo with his own two hands, working nights and weekends for a year after my mom died, because he wanted me to have a place that was always mine.
About how he’d sat on this very porch the night I brought Tyler home, telling her, “That boy’s gonna break her heart. I just hope I’m here to pick up the pieces when he does.”
I cried into my flan, and Mrs. Lopez handed me tissues, rubbing my back.
“Your dad’s here, mija. He’s watching. He’s so proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
By the time I walked home that night, my stomach was full, my heart a little lighter.
I’d spent so long isolated from everyone who loved me, letting Tyler and his family take over my whole world.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be cared for.
To be seen.
The next day, I updated my graphic design portfolio—the one I’d abandoned three years earlier, when Tyler said freelancing was “unstable” and made me get a boring office job I hated.
I applied to three small design firms downtown.
I didn’t tell anyone.
It felt like a secret, a little piece of myself I was taking back.
A week later, I got a call back from the smallest firm, a three-person shop that specialized in branding for local nonprofits.
They wanted me to come in for an interview.
I hung up the phone, jumping up and down in the middle of my living room, laughing so hard my sides hurt.
For the first time since the night of the dinner, I didn’t just feel free.
I felt alive.
May you like
Like I was finally getting my life back.
Piece by piece.
