Chapter 9
The next nine months passed in a blur of firsts.
Mia’s first steps, wobbly but determined, across the living room floor, straight into my dad’s waiting arms. Her first word—“Mama,” clear as day, making Lila cry happy tears. Her first birthday, a small party with just us, Lila’s parents, and the nurse who’d saved us, who’d become a close friend.
My dad filed for divorce from my mom six months after she went to prison. It was finalized quickly, no fight, no drama. My mom didn’t even show up to the hearing. She sent a letter, calling him a traitor, saying she never wanted to see him again.
He didn’t care. He was too busy being a grandpa. He’d retired early, selling the family home, buying a small house two blocks from ours, so he could be there whenever we needed him. Every morning, he’d show up at 7 a.m. with coffee and donuts, ready to take Mia to the park, to read her books, to spoil her rotten.
Lila went back to therapy, working through the trauma of the attack, the break-in, the months of fear. She got stronger, more confident, no longer flinching at loud noises, no longer checking the locks every five minutes. She started painting again, something she’d given up when the stress got too bad, filling our house with bright, happy canvases of Mia, of our family, of the life we’d built.
I went back to work too, getting a promotion, working hard to give Lila and Mia everything they deserved. I still checked the locks at night, still kept the bat by the bed, but it was more out of habit now than fear. The house had a state-of-the-art security system, cameras everywhere, a direct line to the police. We were safe.
But there was still a weight. A small, dark corner of my mind that wondered if my mom would ever get out, if she’d ever come back, if we’d ever truly be free of her.
That weight lifted on a Tuesday in May.
My lawyer called, his voice happy.
“Your mom’s parole hearing was this morning,” he said. “She was denied. The judge said she’s shown no remorse, no willingness to change. She’ll serve the full two years. And when she gets out, the permanent restraining order is still in place. If she comes within 1,000 feet of you, Lila, or Mia ever again, she goes back to prison for 10 years. No exceptions.”
I hung up the phone, my legs weak with relief. I walked into the backyard, where Lila was pushing Mia on the swing, my dad sitting on the patio, watching them, a smile on his face.
I told them the news. Lila stopped pushing the swing, her hand flying to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. My dad stood up, clapping me on the back, his own eyes wet.
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Mia didn’t understand what was going on, but she laughed, kicking her legs, yelling “Higher! Higher!”
I pushed her higher, the sun warm on my face, the sound of her laugh filling the yard. For the first time since that night in the hospital, I felt truly free. The weight was gone. The fear was gone. All that was left was love.
