Chapter 8 - The Light of Dawn
Two Years Later
The salty breeze blew in off the Pacific Ocean, carrying the sound of crashing waves through the open sliding glass door of our living room.
I stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes on the stove, listening to the most beautiful sound in the world.
Laughter.
I looked over my shoulder. Hannah was sitting on the thick rug in the living room, building a massive tower out of colorful wooden blocks. Her hair was long and healthy, her skin glowing with life. The physical scars on her wrists had faded into faint white lines, but the emotional ones were healing every day.
Two-year-old Owen, a chaotic ball of boundless energy, took a running leap and crashed directly into the tower.
The blocks scattered everywhere. Owen burst into uncontrollable giggles, and Hannah scooped him up, blowing a raspberry on his cheek until he shrieked with joy.
“Breakfast is ready, you monsters!” I called out, bringing a stack of pancakes to the dining table.
Hannah carried Owen over, kissing me softly on the cheek before sitting down.
“You burnt the edges,” she teased, smiling up at me.
“They’re rustic,” I corrected, pouring syrup over Owen’s plate.
We lived in Oregon now. Three thousand miles away from Kansas City. Three thousand miles away from the horror we had left behind.
Justice had been served cold and hard.
My mother’s trial had been a media circus. Her attempts to play the victim fell apart under the crushing weight of the evidence. The jury deliberated for less than two hours.
Patricia Parker was sentenced to twenty-five years in a maximum-security women's penitentiary. She would likely die behind bars.
Courtney took a plea deal, testifying against our mother in exchange for a ten-year sentence.
I hadn't spoken to either of them since the night in the driveway. They were dead to me.
I sold the house in Kansas City without ever stepping back inside. We packed whatever fit in our car and drove west, never looking in the rearview mirror.
“Hey,” Hannah said softly, reaching across the table to touch my hand.
I snapped out of my memories, looking into her warm eyes.
“Where did you go just now?” she asked gently.
“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” I smiled, intertwining my fingers with hers.
Owen slammed his sticky, syrup-covered hand onto the table. “More!” he demanded.
May you like
Hannah laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the sunlit room.
The darkness was finally behind us. We had walked through hell, but we had walked out together. And as I looked at my wife and my son, bathed in the morning light, I knew that no matter what the future held, no one would ever break our family again.
