Chapter 49
I saw the transport van waiting to take Austin and Monica back to jail. I thought about the $20,000 I had carried in my boot. I thought about the fear in Mia’s eyes when she called me. I thought about Leo’s tears in the cabin. It had cost me my son. It had cost me my peace of mind.
It had cost me the illusion of a happy family. But as I turned away from the window, ready to go home to the two children waiting for me in the lobby, I knew I had made the only trade that mattered. I had traded a lie for the truth. And the truth, as painful as it was, felt like solid ground. The farmhouse we bought sits on 4 acres of land in the quiet hills of North Carolina. It is a simple place.
The floors cak when you walk on them, and the wind whistles through the chimney on stormy nights, but it is ours. It is paid for. And most importantly, it is safe. I was standing at the kitchen island kneading dough for a loaf of sourdough bread. Baking has become a ritual for me.
There is something grounding about the physical act of turning flour and water into sustenance. It is honest work. You cannot lie to do. If you rush it, if you treat it badly, it will not rise. Through the window above the sink, I could see Leo. He was not staring at a screen. He was not worrying about whether his shoes were expensive enough.
He was throwing a tennis ball for the two stray dogs we adopted from the shelter last month. He was wearing jeans stained with grass and a t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. And he was laughing. It was a deep belly laugh that echoed across the yard. Mia was sitting at the kitchen table behind me. She was drawing.
She had filled three sketchbooks in the last 6 months. She drew trees. She drew the dogs. She drew us. Grandpa, she said holding up her picture. Look, it was a drawing of the three of us standing in front of the house. The son in the corner of the page was wearing sunglasses. It is beautiful, honey, I said, wiping the flower from my hands.
We will put it on the fridge. The fridge. The appliance that used to be a symbol of her torture was now covered in art. It was filled with fresh vegetables, milk, and cheese. It was never locked. Mia checked it sometimes just to make sure. She would open the door, stare at the food for a second, smile, and close it again.