That evening, I picked up Hannah from school. “Are we moving again?” she asked softly.
“No,” I said. “We’re going home.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling for the first time in months. “It always was.”
Six months later, the quiet feels like a gift. My mother and Brittany have since turned on each other — poetic, if a bit sad. Small-town gossip travels fast: arguments, slammed doors, and yet another lock changed.
As for Hannah and me, we’ve found something we never had before — peace.
We tend the garden, watch movies on weekends, and fill the house with laughter instead of shouting. The rain doesn’t scare her anymore. She says the flowers grow faster when you stop yelling at them.
She’s right.
Because sometimes, the greatest justice isn’t revenge — it’s reclaiming your peace and teaching your child that love, when it’s real, never locks you out.
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