I didn’t burn it.
I didn’t answer it.
Maybe one day I would.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
For the first time in my life, that decision belonged entirely to me.
Later that night, I carried Amelia upstairs.
She fell asleep with her cheek against my shoulder.
I paused outside the nursery.
Lucas’s photograph hung beside the door.
I looked at him.
“We made it,” I whispered.
The house was quiet.
Safe.
Ours.
As I laid Amelia in her crib, she opened her sleepy eyes.
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Home?”
I brushed the hair away from her forehead.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
I smiled through my tears.
“We’re home.”
And in that moment, I remembered my father standing above me on the porch, telling me to call whoever I wanted.
He had believed I was powerless.
He had believed that without Lucas, I had nothing.
He had believed my silence meant surrender.
