Weeks passed. Paige tried to appeal, but it didn’t work. The judgment stood, and the payments started coming in small checks, never early, always with a snarky note like “Enjoy, Princess.” I didn’t care. I cashed them anyway.
Each envelope felt like a reminder that she’d lost, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
Meanwhile, I could finally breathe again.
The house no longer felt violated. It felt calm and steady.
Some nights, I’d sit in the living room with a cup of tea, the lights low, the TV off. I’d run my hand over the armrest of the new chair and listen to the quiet. It wasn’t the same. It never would be. But it was mine. And it was safe.
Sometimes, I’d walk into Gran’s room, sit on the edge of the bed, and whisper.
“Got her back, Gran,” I’d say. “She didn’t win.”
One day, I opened the bottom drawer of her old desk. I placed the framed court ruling beside her favorite Bible and the photo of her holding my mom’s hands, both smiling on my mom’s wedding day.
It felt like putting something broken back together.
I didn’t need to gloat. I didn’t need to tell anyone what I’d done. But that ruling reminded me of something Gran always said: “You’re stronger than you think, Abigail.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.
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