Some days were harder than others.
But every morning I woke up in a home where nobody told me I deserved pain.
I learned that survival does not always look dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like a phone call.
A medical record.
A witness who finally speaks.
A folder placed on a table.
The night I crawled through the rain, I thought I was leaving everything behind.
I didn’t know I was walking toward the moment my voice would finally be heard.
PART 3 (THE END)
The footsteps stopped outside my hospital room.
I looked toward the door.
A woman in her late fifties stood there, holding a small leather handbag against her chest. Her eyes were red, and her hands trembled.
I recognized her immediately.
Margaret Bennett.
Paul’s aunt.
The younger sister of his father.
She had attended our wedding, sent Christmas cards every year, and always seemed uncomfortable whenever Diane spoke to me.
