I walked into the room, finding her dancing gently to the radio while the coffee brewed.
“Do you miss him?” I asked, smiling.
She paused, looking out at the garden. “I miss who I was before I met him.”
“You are still her, Mom.”
“No,” she said, taking my hand in a firm, unshakeable grip. “I’m significantly stronger now.”
Garrick sent one final letter from the federal penitentiary, demanding forgiveness. My mother returned it to the post office unopened.
That evening, my mother opened every window in the house, and the fresh spring air filled the silent rooms. Then she locked the front door—not from a place of fear, but because we were leaving for a celebratory dinner—and for the first time in years, the night belonged entirely to us.
