Fallon never apologized to me directly.
She sent one final message saying she hoped I was satisfied.
I deleted it.
Satisfaction was not what I felt.
I felt grief for the woman I had tried to welcome, for the son who had failed to see me clearly, and for the years I had mistaken endurance for kindness.
I also felt something quieter beneath the grief: space.
My house began to feel like mine again.
One evening, I opened the office windows.
The lilacs outside had begun to fade, but their scent still reached Warren’s desk.
I placed his camera on the shelf and removed the copied signature pages from the evidence folder.
The plastic bracelet was still in the kitchen drawer.
I considered throwing it away.
Instead, I kept it—not because Fallon had given it to me, but because it reminded me of the exact moment I stopped measuring love by what I was willing to tolerate.
The bracelet had cost seven dollars.
The lesson cost far more.
But for the first time in years, the account was mine to close.
