I turned toward the audience to acknowledge the applause. The spotlight swept across the crowd, illuminating faces in the darkness.
And there, in the last row, sitting in the shadows where they hoped not to be noticed, were two familiar faces.
Caleb and Margaret.
They looked small. Insignificant.
Dwarfed by the crowd cheering for the woman theyhad thrown away like garbage.
Caleb was watching me with an expression of pure, unadulterated devastation. His lips trembled when our eyes met across the sea of people. He mouthed two words: “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t scowl. I didn’t glare.
I simply looked right through him.
He was a ghost. He was part of a past that no longer defined me.
After the ceremony, reporters swarmed around me. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks. I answered questions about the fire, about motherhood, about the adrenaline of that night.
“How did you find the strength?” one reporter asked.
