And I meant it.
After we were discharged, we stayed with Laura. Martha had already gathered some of our things with the police—my bag, Ryan’s hoodie, and a drawing he left on the fridge that morning.
It showed the three of us together. Smiling.
At the top, he had written: “Family night.”
I couldn’t look at it for long.
Ethan is still in custody. Nicole faces charges too. The lawyers talk about procedures, evidence, timelines.
But the real truth isn’t in any report.
The truth is this:
My son ate a meal his father served him with a smile.
And he survived.
So did I.
Sometimes I wake up smelling cilantro that isn’t there.
Sometimes a scraping chair makes my chest tighten.
Sometimes Ryan sleeps with the light on—and I let him.
Martha visits every Sunday. She doesn’t bring flowers. She brings practical things—bread, batteries, anything we need. Quiet help that holds everything together.
I don’t know when we’ll feel safe again.
But I do know this:
The next time I see Ethan…
it won’t be across a dinner table.
It will be in a courtroom.
