Chapter 17
Years passed.
The marks on my throat faded.
My reflex to apologize took longer.
I caught myself saying sorry when someone bumped into me.
Sorry when asking questions.
Sorry when taking up space.
Each time, I stopped.
Relearned.
Tried again.
I bought a small bakery near Dad’s old church and turned half into a cafe, half into offices for Clear Will.
Megan said combining pastries and legal intake was weird.
Then she ate three muffins and withdrew her objection.
People came for coffee.
Stayed for help.
Sometimes, they came for help and left with pie.
That felt like healing with butter.
One afternoon, Ryan’s sister, Claire, came in.
I tensed.
She raised both hands.
“I’m not here for him.”
“What do you want?”
She swallowed.
“To apologize. I believed Linda. I repeated things about you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
I waited.
She added, “And I want to volunteer, if that is not too much to ask.”
It was almost too much.
Then she showed me bank notices Linda had forged in her name too.
Linda had eaten her own children’s futures as easily as mine.
Claire cried.
I gave her coffee.
Not forgiveness.
May you like
A seat.
Sometimes repair starts there.
