Chapter 7
The civil trial was quick.
Mom didn’t even show up.
Her lawyer was there, but he didn’t put up a fight. The evidence was too overwhelming.
The judge ordered her to pay back every cent.
Eighteen thousand dollars I’d sent her.
Twelve thousand dollars from Amy’s savings.
Three thousand dollars in medical bills from the hospital.
Thirty-three thousand dollars total.
Plus court costs.
Plus interest.
She had almost no money left—she’d spent it all on clothes, trips, and gambling. The judge ordered her to sell all her designer things, her jewelry, her car. Whatever didn’t cover the rest would come out of her prison commissary, every cent she earned making license plates, for as long as it took.
The judge also ordered the county clerk to clear all claims to our house.
The deed was mine again.
Officially.
Legally.
No one could ever take it from us.
We moved back home two days later.
Amy’s parents came with us, helping us clean. The relatives from the party showed up too, with buckets and mops and cleaning supplies, apologizing over and over. They stripped the carpets, scrubbed the walls, hauled all of mom’s things out to the curb.
We donated the clothes.
We sold the jewelry and put the money in Freddy’s college fund.
We burned the bed she’d slept in, the sheets she’d used, the dishes she’d made Amy scrub.
We wanted every trace of her gone.
By the end of the weekend, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and fresh paint.
It felt like ours again.
That Sunday, Amy stood in the middle of the kitchen, leaning against the counter, holding a mug of hot coffee.
Freddy was in his high chair, eating mashed bananas, making a mess all over his face.
I wrapped my arms around Amy’s waist, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“Welcome home,” I said.
She smiled, leaning back against me.
“Home,” she said, like she was testing the word. “I like the sound of that.”
A week later, there was a knock on the door.
It was Aunt Linda, holding a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies.
“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice nervous.
I hesitated, but Amy nodded.
We sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, while Freddy played on the floor with his blocks.
“I talked to the rest of the family,” Linda said, setting the cookies down. “We all know what Teresa did was unforgivable. None of us want anything to do with her ever again. But we want you to know… we’re here. For babysitting. For help with the house. For whatever you need. You’re family. Real family.”
She pushed an envelope across the table.
Inside was a check for five thousand dollars.
“We all chipped in,” she said. “It’s not all of it, but it’s a start. For the restitution she can’t pay. For whatever you need.”
Amy picked up the check, her eyes wet.
“Thank you,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”
“We do,” Linda said. “We let you down. We should’ve seen what was happening. We should’ve helped you. This is the least we can do.”
She left an hour later, promising to come back the next week to watch Freddy so Amy and I could go out to dinner.
I looked at Amy.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She looked at the check, then at Freddy, who was now stacking blocks into a wobbly tower.
“I think everyone deserves a second chance,” she said. “Just not her.”
That night, we put Freddy to bed, then sat on the back porch, drinking wine, watching the fireflies blink in the backyard.
It was quiet.
No music.
No yelling.
No demands.
Just the crickets, and the wind in the trees, and us.
Amy took a sip of wine, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“Remember when we first bought this house?” she asked. “We sat right here, drinking cheap beer, talking about all the kids we were gonna have. All the birthday parties. All the Christmases.”
I smiled.
“I remember,” I said.
“I was so scared we’d lost that,” she said.
May you like
I kissed her.
“We didn’t lose anything,” I said. “We’re just getting started.”
