Chapter 10 - Where the Light Stays
Two years later.
The morning sun filtered brightly through the wide glass windows of a sunlit lecture hall at Ohio State University.
I sat in the front row of my Advanced Child Advocacy seminar, taking notes on my laptop.
I was nineteen years old now.
My ribs had healed completely, leaving only a tiny, faint shadow on X-rays that no longer caused me pain. I lived in a bright, cozy apartment near campus with two wonderful roommates, and my protected trust fund paid for my tuition and books.
My major was Social Work, with a minor in Forensic Psychology. My dream was simple: to become a licensed child advocate caseworker—just like Angela Moore—so I could walk into dark rooms, sit beside terrified kids on hospital beds, and tell them that they were no longer alone.
After class ended, I walked across the leafy green campus quad, pulling my jacket tight against the crisp autumn air.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text message from Martha:
“Hi sweetie! Making your favorite pot roast for dinner this Sunday. Make sure you bring your appetite and extra laundry!”
I smiled, typing back a quick heart emoji and confirming I would be home on Friday evening.
I stopped near the grand fountain in the center of the campus square, looking up at the clear, vast blue sky above me.
My father was still serving his sentence at a regional facility. Brittany was in a transition facility in another state, required by law to remain hundreds of miles away from me for the rest of her life. My mother lived alone in a small apartment two towns over, having sold the massive four-bedroom house on the hill to pay off legal debts.
I didn't feel hatred for them anymore. Hatred was a heavy, exhausting burden, and I had left all my heavy burdens behind on the floor of that emergency room three years ago.
I reached into my bag, pulled out my blue leather journal, and opened it to a fresh white page.
With a smooth, steady hand, I wrote the final lines of my chapter:
May you like
“They told me we would handle it at home because they thought home was a fortress built to keep the truth locked inside. But truth isn't something you can lock behind marble walls. Truth is like light—it always finds the smallest crack, and once it breaks through, it turns everything dark into something free.”
I closed the journal, slid it back into my bag, and walked forward into my future—safe, whole, and completely free.
