Chapter 9
The year after the trial was the best year of my life.
I threw myself into my work.
I led my team through three huge projects, breaking every company record in the book.
The CEO took me out to lunch and told me I was on the fast track to partner.
I kept volunteering at Her Voice.
I started a support group for women who were rebuilding their lives after leaving abusive relationships.
We met every Wednesday night at the community center.
We talked.
We cried.
We laughed.
We helped each other write resumes, find apartments, get custody of their kids.
I watched women who’d come in broken and scared turn into warriors right in front of my eyes.
One of them was the girl who’d called me that night, the one who’d been going to kill herself.
Her name was Mia.
She’d stayed with Mrs. Greene and me for three months.
She got a job at a daycare.
She got her own apartment.
She got full custody of her little girl.
Last month, she’d stood up in front of the group and told her story.
When she was done, she looked right at me and said, “Elena saved my life. If she can do it, I can do it. We all can.”
I cried so hard I had to leave the room for a minute.
Mrs. Greene was still my rock.
She’d moved into the house with me six months after the trial.
Her old house was too big for just her, and she was getting older— her knees were starting to bother her.
We converted the first-floor guest room into a suite for her, with a big walk-in shower and handrails by the toilet.
She planted a huge vegetable garden in the backyard, just like she’d had at her old place.
We had dinner together every night.
She taught me how to make her famous apple pie.
I taught her how to use a smartphone so she could video call her grandkids.
We were family.
Better than family, really.
We’d chosen each other.
I’d even started dating again.
His name was Daniel.
He was a social worker who worked with at-risk kids.
We’d met at a fundraiser for Her Voice.
He was tall, with curly brown hair and a smile that lit up the whole room.
He was kind.
Patient.
He never raised his voice.
He never told me what to do.
He asked my opinion on everything.
He brought me flowers just because.
He held my hand when we walked down the street.
The first time he told me he loved me, I panicked.
I almost broke up with him.
I didn’t know how to be loved without being hurt.
I didn’t know how to trust someone not to leave me, not to hit me, not to steal from me.
But Daniel didn’t push.
He just held me while I cried and said, “I’m not going anywhere. We can go as slow as you need. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
And he did.
We took it one day at a time.
He met my family.
He met Mrs. Greene (she’d grilled him for an hour about his intentions, then pulled me aside and said, “That one’s a keeper. Don’t let him go.”).
He came to my support group meetings, sitting quietly in the back, bringing coffee and donuts for everyone.
He never tried to fix me.
He just loved me, exactly as I was.
Scars and all.
I still had bad days, of course.
Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, heart pounding, convinced Ethan was standing over the bed.
Sometimes a man raising his voice in a grocery store would make me freeze.
Sometimes I’d flinch when Daniel reached for me too fast.
But those days were getting fewer and farther between.
I was healing.
Not all the way, maybe.
But enough.
Enough to be happy.
Enough to love.
Enough to look forward to the future instead of being scared of it.
One day, about a year after the trial, I got a letter in the mail.
It was from Ethan.
Sent from prison.
I almost threw it away without opening it.
But something made me tear the envelope open.
*Elena,* it said. I’ve been in here for eight months now. I’ve had a lot of time to think. I’ve been going to the anger management classes. I’ve been talking to a therapist. I finally understand what I did to you. I understand that I was sick. That my mom raised me to believe that hurting the people you love is normal. It’s not an excuse. Nothing I can say will ever make up for what I put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I destroyed it. I’m not writing this to ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I’m writing to say thank you. Thank you for pressing charges. Thank you for not giving up. If you hadn’t, I never would have gotten help. I never would have realized how broken I was. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. When I get out, I’m going to volunteer with domestic violence groups, talk to kids about healthy relationships. I’ll never bother you again. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. — Ethan
I read the letter twice.
Then I burned it in the kitchen sink.
I didn’t need his apology.
I didn’t need his thanks.
I’d already gotten everything I needed from him.
My freedom.
My life back.
I watched the paper turn to ash, the black flakes swirling down the drain.
And then I turned around, and Daniel was standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
“Okay?” he asked, smiling softly.
I smiled back.
May you like
“Better than okay,” I said.
And for the first time in my life, I really meant it.
