Chapter 7 - THE RECLAMATION OF SARAH STERLING
Six months later, the orthopedic surgeon finally brought out the electric oscillating saw.
The heavy fiberglass cast that had bound my right leg for half a year was cut away in a shower of dusty white flakes. The skin underneath was pale, dry, and slightly weaker than the other leg, but when I stood up on the examination table for the first time without support, the floor felt solid beneath my bare feet.
It hurt. Every muscle screamed in protest, and my knee wobbled like a newborn colt's.
I didn't care. I leaned on the silver-headed cane for balance, took a deep breath, and walked out of the clinic doors into the dazzling spring sunlight.
The trial had ended three weeks prior. David’s defense had collapsed under the weight of the forensic financial audits provided by my father’s team, combined with the digital footprint of his psychological abuse recovered from the smart-home servers. He had accepted a plea deal to avoid a twenty-year federal sentence: twelve years in a medium-security correctional facility in upstate Ohio, with zero chance of parole for the first eight.
His mother hadn't even shown up to sentencing. She had already packed whatever bags she could carry and moved to Florida to live with a cousin who still didn't know she was broke.
My father was waiting by the curb in his vintage dark-green truck, the engine idling with a low, contented rumble.
As I approached the passenger side, Emma came running across the pavement from the park bench where she had been feeding pigeons with my father, her brown curls bouncing around her shoulders.
— Mommy! Your cast is gone! — she shouted, throwing her arms around my waist.
I knelt down—wincing only slightly as my knee popped—and wrapped my arms around my daughter, burying my face in her hair, breathing in the smell of sunshine, shampoo, and absolute freedom.
— It’s gone, baby, — I whispered, kissing the top of her head. — Completely gone.
I stood up, opened the truck door, and climbed into the passenger seat, sliding my cane onto the floorboards behind my seat like an umbrella I wouldn't be needing anymore.
My father shifted the truck into drive, pulled out into the bright, open avenue, and looked over at me with a knowing, approving smile.
— Where to, Sarah?
May you like
I looked out the window at the skyline stretching endlessly toward the horizon, the city where I had once been a prisoner, now just a city where I lived, breathed, and owned every single step I took.
— Home, Dad, — I said, resting my hand comfortably on the dashboard. — Let's go home.
