Dr. Prescott received thirty-five years. His medical license was permanently revoked. The judge’s words were cold: “You weaponized trust. You exploited a patient relationship for profit and harm. There is no rehabilitation for this level of betrayal without severe consequence.”
As Margaret was led away, she looked at me once. No tears. No regret. Only hatred. The look of someone furious that the world refused to reward her cruelty.
Eight months later, my kitchen still felt haunted by small things.
The mug Margaret used every morning sat in a cabinet, untouched. The orchid pots remained by the window, and for a long time I couldn’t look at them without feeling sick. Eventually, I moved them outside. Not because I hated them, but because they were never the problem. She was.
Catherine and Sophie visited often. Sophie started therapy immediately, and I learned that courage doesn’t mean you don’t get hurt. Sophie had nightmares. She jumped at sudden laughter in other rooms. She felt guilty sometimes, as if telling the truth had caused pain.
One afternoon she sat on my couch and said, “Grandpa, what if I hadn’t told you?”