People assume the story ends when the handcuffs click. They imagine closure as a clean door shutting. But closure is messier than that. It’s waking up and realizing you still own a life you almost lost, and you don’t know what to do with it yet.
For a while, I couldn’t stand silence in the house. Silence felt like the moment before something happens. I left the television on at low volume just to keep the rooms from sounding empty. Catherine would tease me gently, “Dad, you’re going to rot your brain.” I would smile and shrug. Better rotting than listening for footsteps that shouldn’t exist.
Sophie helped more than she knew.
She started leaving little notes around the house the way Catherine used to when Sophie was small. Sticky notes on the fridge: Remember to eat lunch. Sticky note on the table: Love you, Grandpa. Sticky note on the orchids outside: Still pretty. Still safe.
I kept every one.
A year after the trial, Sophie turned fourteen. We celebrated with dinner at her favorite place, a little restaurant near the seawall where you can see the water while you eat. Sophie ordered dessert without asking, then smiled at me like she was daring me to tell her no.