I dipped my paintbrush into soft blue paint and smiled at her.
“You called,” I said softly. “I came.”
A year later, Richard mailed a letter from prison asking for forgiveness.
I sent back exactly one thing.
A photograph of my mother standing barefoot in her garden beneath the sunlight.
Healthy.
Smiling.
Free.
On the back, I wrote four words.
She survived you.
Then I moved on.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
