When the transcripts were legally released as part of the public record for the civil trial, the outcry was deafening.
They became pariahs. Their friends abandoned them. The church asked them not to return. They were bankrupt, disgraced, and utterly alone.
My parents lost the house to pay for legal fees. My father was looking at ten years. My mother, five.
Erica took a plea deal. Eight years in state prison.
The day the verdicts came in, I sat in the courtroom. I watched them being led away. My father looked at me, his eyes pleading. My mother was sobbing. Erica just looked angry.
I felt… nothing. The anger was gone. The grief was still there, a dull ache, but the fear? The obligation? It had evaporated.
They were gone. The world was quiet.
But for the first time in my life, it was a peaceful quiet.
Part 6: The New Foundation
Two Years Later.
The sun was setting over the mountains, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. The air was crisp and smelled of pine needles and damp earth.
I sat on the porch of our new home, a cabin miles away from the city, miles away from the memories of that toxic house.
In my arms, a baby girl cooed softly, reaching for my finger with her tiny hand.
Emma.
She was six months old. She had Michael’s blue eyes and my nose. She was perfect. She was a miracle we hadn’t thought possible.
Michael walked out onto the porch, carrying two glasses of lemonade. He sat beside me, his arm draping over my shoulder. He looked at Emma, a look of pure, unadulterated love on his face.
My phone buzzed on the table between us.
It was a blocked number.
