He continued therapy, not because he liked it, but because he respected what it was doing: scraping away the layers of denial he’d used as protection.
We started having dinners that weren’t performances.
Sometimes we talked about the past. Sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes we sat on my porch and watched the waves without filling the silence.
The silence was different now.
It didn’t feel like abandonment.
It felt like peace.
Paige surprised me most.
She testified truthfully, even when it painted her mother in the worst light. She told investigators what she knew about the foundation accounts, the “consulting fees,” the way Victoria coached her on what to say when people asked questions.
Afterward, she didn’t try to rush forgiveness.
She didn’t show up at my house with tears and demands.
She sent a letter.
Not an email. Not a text. A handwritten letter, like she was trying to prove sincerity in the oldest way possible.
Bonnie, it said. I don’t expect you to want me in your life. But I want you to know I see it now. I see what she did to you, and I see how I benefited. I was comfortable because you weren’t. I’m sorry.