“You started something, Loretta,” she tells me. “By speaking up, you gave other people permission to do the same.”
My lungs are still damaged—that won’t change. But now I can afford every medication, every appointment, every treatment. My breathing has improved. My doctor says I’ve probably added years to my life just by removing the stress of that toxic environment.
The Final Visit
Three weeks after I leave Deacon’s house, my doorbell rings. I check the peephole and see him standing there, holding an envelope.
I could call the police. Call Marcus. Let the law handle it.
Instead, I open the door with the chain still attached.
“You’re violating the protective order,” I say quietly.
“I know,” Deacon replies, his voice breaking. “I just needed to say this in person. I’m sorry, Mom. For everything. For how I treated you. For that night. I don’t expect forgiveness. I just needed you to know I understand how wrong I was.”
