The money was recovered. The house, the cars—gone. My parents took plea deals and disappeared behind prison walls where heat is a privilege, not a weapon.

Arthur came home with me.

A real home. Warm. Safe.

One year later, we spent Christmas by the fire, laughing, alive, whole.

A letter came from prison asking him for money.

He used it to start the fire.

Sometimes justice doesn’t arrive softly.

Sometimes it kicks the door down.

And sometimes, the child you abandoned grows up to be the law.