Chapter 10
A year passed.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
It sounds like such a short time.
But it was enough to rebuild a life.
Jackson was back at the company full-time.
He was better than ever.
Stronger.
Sharper.
Humbled by what he had been through.
The employees loved him.
The stock price was higher than it had ever been.
He had started a foundation in Frank’s name.
It funded domestic violence shelters.
Programs for victims of financial fraud.
Support groups for people who had been manipulated and abused.
He turned his pain into something good.
Something that mattered.
He was dating again.
A nice girl from the accounting department.
Smart.
Funny.
Kind.
She had no idea who he was when they met.
She had never heard of the Westbrook name.
She liked him for him.
It was new.
It was healthy.
And for the first time in a long time, I saw him smile.
Truly smile.
The house was quiet again.
No guards.
No paparazzi.
No phone calls in the middle of the night.
I had planted a new garden in the backyard.
Roses.
Frank’s favorite.
I sat there every morning with my coffee.
Watching the sun come up.
Talking to him.
Telling him about Jackson.
About the foundation.
About everything.
I never did grow my hair back.
At first, it was because I didn’t want to.
It felt like a reminder.
A badge of everything I had survived.
Then, after a while, I just got used to it.
I wore scarves.
Hats.
Wigs for special occasions.
But most days, I just went bare.
Bald and proud.
The trial had changed me too.
I was softer now.
But harder too.
I knew what I was capable of.
I knew I could fight.
I knew I could win.
But I also knew that some battles weren’t worth fighting.
That some people weren’t worth hating.
Natalie and Marcus were in maximum-security prisons on opposite sides of the country.
They would never see each other again.
The baby had been born in prison.
A boy.
Healthy.
Perfect.
He had been adopted by a wonderful family in Oregon.
Teachers.
Good people.
They would give him the life he deserved.
A life of love.
And safety.
And truth.
We had arranged it.
Quietly.
Anonymously.
It was the least we could do.
He was innocent in all of this.
And we would make sure he never knew the horrors of his birth.
One afternoon, Jackson came home early.
He had something with him.
A small box.
“Mom,” he said. “I want you to have this.”
He opened the box.
Inside was a necklace.
A simple silver chain.
And a locket.
Frank’s locket.
The one Natalie had stolen from my jewelry box the night she shaved my head.
The police had found it in a safety deposit box in Marcus’s name.
It had just been returned.
I picked it up.
I opened it.
On one side was a photo of Frank.
Young.
Handsome.
Smiling.
On the other was a photo of Jackson.
Newborn.
Wrapped in a blue blanket.
I closed the locket.
I held it to my chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Jackson sat beside me on the garden bench.
We watched the roses sway in the breeze.
“Do you ever think about her?” he asked.
“Natalie?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes,” I said. “Not often. Mostly I just feel sorry for her. She could have had everything. And she threw it all away because she didn’t know how to be loved.”
Jackson was quiet for a long time.
“I forgave her, you know,” he said finally.
I looked at him.
“Not for me,” he said. “For me. I had to. If I’d held onto the anger, the hate… she would have won. She would still be living in my head. Rent-free. Every single day. I had to let it go. For my own sanity.”
He picked a rose.
He handed it to me.
“Dad used to say that holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die,” he said. “I finally understand what he meant.”
I took the rose.
I smelled it.
Sweet.
Strong.
Alive.
“You’re a good man, Jackson Westbrook,” I said. “Your father would be so proud of you.”
He smiled.
And for a moment, he looked exactly like Frank.
The same crinkles around the eyes.
The same crooked grin.
The same kindness that had made me fall in love with his father all those years ago.
“I’m proud of you too, Mom,” he said. “For everything. For fighting for me. For never giving up on me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
We sat in silence for a while.
Watching the sun go down.
Painting the sky pink and orange and purple.
The same colors that should have greeted Jackson on his first morning as a married man.
But that life was gone now.
Burned away.
And in its place was something better.
Something real.
Something that couldn’t be stolen or faked or destroyed.
A mother and her son.
Who had been to hell and back.
And had come out the other side stronger.
Closer.
More in love with each other and with life than ever before.
Jackson stood.
He offered me his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Sarah is coming for dinner. I’m making lasagna. Don’t tell her I used the jarred sauce.”
I laughed.
I took his hand.
He pulled me up.
We walked toward the house together.
Arm in arm.
The roses behind us.
The future ahead.
And for the first time in a very long time, I knew.
Everything was going to be okay.
Frank was watching.
He was proud.
May you like
And the Westbrook legacy was safe.
Forever.
