“And are you succeeding?”
“I am trying. It is harder than I expected, but I am trying every day.”
While Emily rebuilt her life, I observed from a distance the consequences of those years for her ex-husband and his sister. I did not seek revenge, only clarity and safety for my daughter. His sister now lived in a small, modest apartment, far removed from the luxury she had known. I saw her once at the supermarket, her hair gray, dressed plainly, her confidence stripped away. She looked fragile, a shell of her former self. I felt only sadness, for someone whose life had been constructed entirely on appearances and status.
He fared even worse. My investigator reported that he had struggled to hold jobs, been rejected repeatedly, and had taken to drinking heavily. I felt no pleasure in this. I only felt that life was balancing itself.
Six months later, Emily received an envelope without a return address. Inside was a handwritten letter from him. She read it in silence and placed it carefully on the table.
“What does it say?” I asked.