Outside the courthouse, reporters shouted questions, but I simply said one sentence. “Their choices brought them here, not mine.”
Months later, I stood in the kitchen of my new home, sunlight pouring across the counters while my friends unpacked boxes and laughed.
“I still cannot believe this is mine,” I said, running my hand along the surface.
“You earned every inch of it,” Andrew said.
My phone rang one last time with a call from a prison number, and when I answered, my mother’s voice came through.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
I closed my eyes briefly. “Are you sorry for what you did, or sorry you got caught,” I asked.
Silence answered me.
“Goodbye,” I said, ending the call and placing the phone down.
I looked around my home, at my friends, at the life I had finally built without guilt or obligation.
“For the first time in my life, I am free,” I said softly.
And this time, everything truly belonged to me.
