Chapter 8
Spring came.
The flowers in my father’s garden bloomed.
Tulips, daffodils, roses, all the colors he’d loved.
I spent every weekend working in the garden, getting my hands dirty, planting new flowers, pulling weeds.
It was quiet.
Peaceful.
A way to feel close to him.
The foundation opened two more schools that spring.
I went to the ribbon cuttings, gave speeches, met the kids.
One little girl, seven years old, with pigtails and a gap between her front teeth, came up to me after a speech.
She handed me a drawing she’d made.
A picture of a woman in a blue dress, standing in front of a school, surrounded by kids.
“You look like a princess,” she said.
I knelt down to her level.
“Thank you,” I said.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I taped the drawing to the wall in my office, right next to the photo of my father.
I started dating again in May.
A man named Daniel, who worked at the foundation as a teacher.
He was kind.
Funny.
He loved kids, he loved gardening, he loved old movies.
He didn’t know who I was when we met.
He didn’t know about Grant, about the trial, about the money.
He just knew me as Natalie, the woman who ran the foundation, who laughed too loud at his bad jokes, who always brought extra cookies to staff meetings.
We took things slow.
I told him about my past on our third date.
About Grant, about my father, about everything that had happened.
He didn’t look at me like I was broken.
He didn’t say “I’m sorry” a hundred times.
He just held my hand and said, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
I knew then that he was different.
That I could trust him.
Aunt Helen loved him.
She invited him over for dinner every Sunday, made him her famous lasagna, teased him about his terrible golf swing.
For the first time in years, the house felt full.
Full of laughter, full of love, full of life.
I got a letter from Grant in June.
Sent from prison.
Aunt Helen handed it to me, her face tight.
“Want me to throw it away?” she said.
I shook my head.
I opened it.
It was short.
I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything. I ruined everything. I hope you’re happy. You deserve to be happy.
I read it twice.
Then I folded it up and threw it in the trash.
No anger.
No sadness.
Just nothing.
He was a part of my past.
A part I’d left behind.
I didn’t owe him anything.
Not even a reaction.
That night, Daniel took me to dinner.
We sat at a small table by the window, eating pasta, drinking wine, talking about nothing important.
He reached across the table and took my hand.
“I love you,” he said.
The words were simple.
Honest.
No drama, no lies.
Just love.
I smiled.
“I love you too.”
For so long, I’d thought love was about sacrifice.
About staying, about forgiving, about pretending things were okay when they weren’t.
But this was different.
This love was easy.
It was safe.
It was the kind of love my father had always told me I deserved.
I drove home that night with the windows down, the warm summer air blowing through my hair.
I thought about my father.
About the Versace dress hanging in my closet.
About the little girl’s drawing on my office wall.
May you like
About Daniel’s hand in mine.
And I knew, without a doubt, that everything was going to be okay.
