“Anna, I really didn’t know it was this bad,” he said quietly. “If I had, I would have stepped in.” “I know,” I said.
“You’re a good guy. Grandma knew it, too.” “If you want, I can give you some of my share, just to be fair,” he added.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I told him. “You earned it by not being cruel.” My parents left last.
Mom was crying silently. Dad looked ten years older. “Anna,” he said at the door.
“What do we have to do for you to forgive us?” “First,” I said, “actually admit what you did. Not ‘sorry if you were hurt.’
Not ‘we didn’t mean it.’ Own it. Then write letters to my children.
Real apologies. And give me time to decide whether I want you in our lives at all.” “And if we do all that?” he asked.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Start by stopping calling yourselves the victims.” They left.
The quartet finished a mournful Chopin piece. Julia packed up her gear. I stood alone in the room that smelled like roses and burned bridges and felt relief.
On the drive home, my phone exploded with notifications. I didn’t read a single one. Maggie was on the floor playing board games with the kids when I walked in.
They ran to hug me, yelling about pizza and cartoons and how Aunt Maggie was the coolest. “Can we go back tomorrow?” Mikey asked.
“You can do anything you want,” I said. “We’re free.” Later that night, I told Maggie everything.
“Damn,” she whistled. “That was brutal and kind of cinematic. They’re definitely going to sue.”
“Let them,” I shrugged. “The paperwork’s ironclad. Grandma made sure of it.”
Sure enough, a week later, Olivia filed a lawsuit. The judge read the will, reviewed the evidence, read Dr. Helen’s report. He dismissed the claim.
The will stood. Final judgment. Alex tried a different angle.
PART 7
He sent texts, left voicemails, even showed up at my door. “Anna, we didn’t mean it like that,” he said through the door. “Kids fight.
Families fight. Let’s just forget it and start over.” I stayed silent.
What do you even say to someone who honestly doesn’t understand what they’ve done? Three months later, I got another knock on the door. This time, it was Eric, my ex-husband, in a suit with a tie and flowers, of all things.
“Anna, can we talk?” he asked. “If it’s about child support, I’m not renegotiating,” I replied. “It’s not that,” he said.
“I heard about your family, the court, everything.” I let him in, made tea. We sat at the kitchen table like awkward co-workers.
“I never asked them to take my side,” he began. “I didn’t tell them to treat you that way.” “But you didn’t stop them either,” I said.
He dropped his eyes. “At first, it flattered me,” he admitted. “I was an idiot, a hurt idiot.”
We sat in silence for a moment. “Lizzie and Mikey suffered because of me,” he said quietly. “Because of our divorce.
I get that now. I want to fix what I can. Can we try to co-parent properly?
No war, no tug-of-war over holidays. Maybe we can take them to Dreamland Park together sometime.” I thought about it.
Kids need their father. That’s just reality. And if he really was changing…
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