“She’d be proud of you,” he said.
“For what? Brushing my hair?”
“For counting to a hundred.” He handed me a cup. “She always said you’d quit at thirty.”
I laughed.
We sat on the couch together and drank our coffee and looked at the mirror. The afternoon sun came in through the blinds and caught the new glass, and for a second it threw a little rainbow across the wall. Right across the spot where the hole by the fireplace used to be.
For almost eight months, I’d thought winning meant keeping the house. Or getting the right number on the settlement. Or making the judge see who Brian really was.
I’d lie awake at night running numbers in my head. Making lists. Planning what I’d say if he said this, or if his lawyer did that. Every hearing felt like a war, and every war felt like it would decide whether I was going to be okay.
