Christopher walked the final six steps without crutches.
Everyone stood.
Afterward, he whispered, “I practiced for three months.”
I kissed him.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Mrs. Alvarez tells me everything.”
“Traitor.”
Five years have passed since the day I first entered Bennett House.
Brandon is thirteen now.
He plays baseball and insists he will make the major leagues.
Emma is ten and wants to become a veterinarian, a fashion designer, and possibly president.
Ryan lives twenty minutes away.
He visits constantly.
Too constantly, according to Christopher.
Marcus remains in prison.
The criminal companies were dismantled.
Billions were recovered.
Christopher redirected a large portion of his personal fortune into programs for spinal-cord research, witness protection assistance, and housing for struggling single parents.
One of those programs now funds emergency apartments for mothers facing eviction.
The first building opened on the South Side.
We named it Morgan House.
Not after me.
