Marcus smiled. “Good. Because there’s more. The board that oversees Sloan’s work has opened a review. They’ve had prior complaints about how she spoke to and pressured older clients. And Deacon…” He sighed. “He’s already lost several major clients. People don’t want to trust their savings to someone who mistreated his own parent. He’s not ruined, but he’s facing real consequences.”
I should have felt triumphant. Instead, I mostly felt tired.
“Will I have to see them again?” I asked.
“Not unless you choose to,” Marcus said. “The order is permanent. If they violate it, there are clear steps we can take.”
I stood. Marcus walked me to the door.
“Thank you,” I said. “For remembering me.”
He shook his head. “I never forgot, Loretta. Twenty years ago, you watched my daughter when I was at rock bottom. You kept us afloat. This doesn’t erase that. But I’m glad I could stand up for you, too.”
The apartment Marcus’s wife helped me find is small but warm. One bedroom, one bathroom, a little kitchen just big enough for a table and two chairs. The heat works. The shower has grab bars and a bath mat that doesn’t slip. Sunlight pours in through the windows in the morning.
It’s mine.
Vincent helped me move in. He had furniture in storage—a couch, a television, some lamps. “I was saving them for someday,” he said. “Someday showed up.”
Rhonda visits a couple of times a week, bringing groceries and stories. She tells me about the article she wrote, about the column of letters that followed from other people in Ohio and beyond who suddenly recognized themselves or their parents in my story.
“You started something, Loretta,” she said. “By saying ‘enough,’ you gave other people permission to say it, too.”
I keep the photo of Deacon at graduation in a drawer now. Not on display. Not ripped up.
That boy existed once. That love was real. My memories aren’t lies. But I need to remember something else, too—that love isn’t a free pass for disrespect. That you can’t keep shrinking yourself just because you remember a softer version of someone.
My lungs are still damaged. That hasn’t changed. But now I can afford every medication and appointment. I take my treatments on schedule. I go to physical therapy without worrying if I can pay the co-pay. My breathing has improved. My oxygen levels are more stable.
My doctor says I’ve probably added years to my life just by leaving that house and living somewhere I can truly rest.
Sometimes I think about Deacon. I wonder if he thinks about me, if he regrets what he did. But most days, his name doesn’t cross my mind. I think about the birds outside my window instead, especially the bright red cardinals that come to the feeder Vincent hung for me. I think about the paperback novels on my nightstand, the shows I watch in the evening, the people who stop by just because they want to.
Three weeks after the slap, I’m sitting at my little kitchen table in Columbus, drinking coffee and watching the morning news, when my phone rings.
Marcus.
“Thought you’d want an update,” he says. “The professional board made their decision about Sloan. Six-month suspension, required ethics training and counseling. One more substantiated complaint, and she could lose her license permanently.
“And Deacon?” I ask.
“His firm asked him to resign,” Marcus says. “Technically, it’s presented as voluntary. They offered a severance package. But he won’t be working in finance in Columbus again anytime soon. His reputation here is damaged.”
I sit with that news for a second. Justice doesn’t feel triumphant. It just feels… still.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say.
“Loretta.” His voice softens. “You did the right thing. What happened to you wasn’t okay. You pushed back. That matters.”
After we hang up, the apartment is quiet. Peaceful. Mine.
A little while later, the doorbell rings.
I check the peephole.
Vincent stands there, holding a paper bag from the bakery down the street. I open the door.
“You’re early,” I say.
“Couldn’t wait,” he replies, grinning. He holds up the bag. “Brought you those flaky pastries you like. And the good coffee.”
We sit at my small table, sunlight warming the wood. He tells me about his week, about a case he’s working on, about his girlfriend who wants to meet me. We talk about little things—weather, sports, a show he thinks I’d like.
“You seem lighter,” he says at one point.
“I am,” I answer. “Turns out carrying resentment is heavier than carrying hope.”
“That’s pretty wise for a Thursday morning,” he jokes.
“I’m a very wise seventy-three-year-old,” I tell him.
He laughs.
When he leaves, he hugs me tightly. “Love you, Mama Loretta.”
“Love you, too,” I say.
After he goes, I sit by the window and watch the birds. I count blessings instead of ceiling cracks.
Later that day, my phone buzzes. A text from Rhonda.
Check your email. First scholarship recipient is confirmed.
I open my email and see a photo of a woman in her late thirties. She’s caring for her father, who lives with memory loss. She’s going back to school for nursing with help from the scholarship that came out of my case.
She’s smiling. She looks tired but hopeful.
Warmth spreads through my chest. This is why it mattered. Not the legal language, or the headlines, or even the apology that may someday run in print. The point was making something good grow where something painful once sat.
I forward the email to Marcus and Vincent and add a note.
Thank you for helping me help her.
That afternoon, the sun slants through my window, soft and golden. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My lungs aren’t perfect, but they work. They are enough.
I am enough.
That evening, the doorbell rings again.
I’m not expecting anyone. My first thought is that Vincent forgot something. I check the peephole.
Deacon.
For a moment, my heart stops, then pounds, then settles.
There’s a protective order in place. He’s not supposed to be here.
I could call Marcus. I could call the police. I could let the law speak for me.
Instead, I slide the chain across the door and open it just a few inches.
“Mom,” he says. His voice cracks on the word. “Please. I just need five minutes.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he says. “I know. But I had to come. I needed to say this to you in person.”
He’s holding an envelope. His hands are shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words tumbling out. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything. For how I spoke to you. For making you feel like a burden. For…” He swallows hard. “For that night in the kitchen.”
I say nothing.
