Chapter 7 - The Journey Home
The drive back across town felt entirely different than the trip out. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the streets coated in a thick, undisturbed blanket of white that muffled the sound of our tires. The city looked clean, quiet, and peaceful, as if washing away years of accumulated grime in a single evening.
Neither Natalie nor I spoke for the first ten minutes. She kept her eyes fixed on the road, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth, while I watched the blurry streetlights drift past the passenger window.
“Well,” Natalie finally broke the silence, glancing over at me with a raised eyebrow. “That certainly beats sitting around eating dry turkey and listening to your sister brag about her husband's stock portfolio.”
I let out a breath that felt like I was exhaling a ten-ton anchor I had been dragging behind me since 2017. A genuine laugh bubbled up from my chest—the first real, unburdened laugh I had shared in years.
“I think ‘dramatic’ was an understatement,” I smiled, leaning my head back against the seat headrest. “Did you see the look on Stephanie’s face when she realized her precious downtown duplex was gone?”
“Priceless,” Natalie chuckled, turning the steering wheel to navigate our street. “And don't worry about the legal fallout. The probate judge is already prepped to issue the formal writ of possession on Monday morning. By New Year's Day, that house will legally and physically be yours to do with whatever you please. You can move in, sell it, or turn it into a wildlife sanctuary for stray cats. The choice is yours.”
“I think I’ll sell it,” I said softly, watching the familiar outline of our small, cozy suburban house come into view up ahead. “I don't want those memories clinging to the walls. Chloe and I need a fresh start somewhere new. Somewhere where we don't have to beg for a seat at the table.”
Natalie pulled into our driveway, parking right beside her own sedan. She turned off the ignition, reached across the console, and squeezed my hand tightly.
“You did good tonight, Rach,” she said softly. “You protected your kid. That’s what real mothers do.”
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“Thank you, Nat,” I replied, my voice thick with genuine gratitude. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“That’s what best friends—and pitbull attorneys—are for,” she grinned, popping her door open. “Now, go inside. I’m heading home to pour myself a very large glass of wine and bask in the glory of a well-executed judgment.”
