One year later, snow fell outside our small apartment. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was peaceful.

Lily and I wore pajamas, decorating a simple Christmas tree.

“Mom, the kettle’s ready!” she called.

For months, I couldn’t drink tea. The memory haunted me.

But today was different.

Today marked survival.

Daniel was serving life in prison. Caroline received twenty years.

I poured chamomile tea into two mugs. The scent was soft and calming.

“Here you go,” I said.

We sat beside the glowing tree.

“Mom… are we safe now?” Lily asked.

I smiled, taking a sip.

“Yes. We’re safe. Because we have each other.”

She clinked her mug against mine.

“To us.”

“To us.”

Outside, snow covered the world in quiet white — burying the past, opening the door to a new future.

And for the first time, tea tasted like peace.