Chapter 20 - A House With Open Doors
We didn't take Sofia back to Ruth's house.
Daniel rented a small place on the edge of town with yellow kitchen curtains, a narrow porch, and a front door that didn't stick. The first thing he did was put a phone charger beside our bed. The second was give me a key without making a joke about who owned the place.
"You don't have to prove you're allowed here," he said.
"Neither do you," I answered.
Our daughter came home after nine weeks in the NICU. She still had medical appointments and a growing list of people cheering for every ounce she gained. June came over to teach us how to fold towels into ridiculously tiny rolls. Cora brought an apple pie. Nina gave Sofia a copy of Robert's letter, sealed for when she was old enough to read it.
The legal case moved more slowly than our hearts wanted. Months later Ruth pleaded guilty to financial fraud and forgery, and admitted wrongdoing connected to delaying my emergency care. She received a custodial sentence, and the court imposed restitution obligations. Victor also faced criminal consequences for the fraudulent transfers. Independent trustees began recovering the scholarship money, and the workers received regular public reports. We kept the packing house operating while the rest of the orchard's finances were rebuilt.
Ruth wrote several letters. I read one. She said she was sorry. I believed she regretted what happened. I didn't owe her access to my child in exchange for the apology.
Daniel sometimes missed the mother he'd thought he had. I never asked him to pretend otherwise. He didn't ask me to pretend she was safe.
On Sofia's first birthday, we held a party in the backyard. There was a crooked cake, balloons tied to folding chairs, and June's yellow duck sitting at the head of the table. Sofia slapped both hands into the frosting. Everyone laughed.
After the guests left, I carried her to the bedroom. She was sleepy and warm, with a smear of icing behind one ear. Daniel came to the doorway and asked, "Need anything?"
A year earlier, I'd called into a hallway until I had no voice left. Now my husband stopped and waited for an answer.
"Just stay a minute," I said.
He sat beside us. Sofia reached for his finger with one hand and mine with the other.
"I'm here," he told her.
May you like
"Me too," I whispered.
And in our house, that finally meant something.
