My mother-in-law slapped me across the face at Christmas dinner.

Spring came to Ohio slowly, melting away the bitter gray snowbanks and replacing them with pale green shoots, blooming cherry blossoms, and warm, golden afternoons.

Frank’s divorce from Judith went through with quiet, surgical efficiency. Freed from the brick house, Frank bought a small, cluttered workshop near the river in Wilmington, where he spent his days restoring vintage wooden rocking chairs and gardening. He visited us in Columbus every other weekend, sitting on our back porch drinking iced tea and playing blocks with Ellie on the living room rug.

He had become the grandfather he was never allowed to be under Judith’s roof—warm, patient, and entirely free of ledgers.

Paige and Scott had both broken away from the Mason compound as well, carving out their own independent lives, rebuilding their relationships with each other and with us through messy, honest family dinners where dropped forks were met with laughter instead of punishment.

And as for Ellie and me?

We moved into a bright, airy apartment on the north side of Columbus. It had crooked wooden floors, a chaotic kitchen where flour frequently ended up on the ceiling, and a living room where pillows were piled into permanent fortresses that stayed up for days at a time.

There were no color-coordinated velvet dress codes here. No arrival schedules. No fear.

One evening in late May, as the golden hour spilled across our living room rug, Ellie spilled her entire glass of apple juice right across the newly laid hardwood floor.

I froze for a fraction of a second—muscle memory from six years of tyranny whispering in the back of my mind.

Ellie’s lower lip quivered instantly. She looked up at me with wide, terrified blue eyes, bracing herself for the shouting, the pointing, the cold glare, the slap.

My heart twisted.

I dropped the dish towel I was holding, rushed across the room, and dropped down onto my knees right beside her sticky puddle of juice.

I pulled her into my arms, pressing her close against my chest.

"Oh, baby," I whispered, kissing the top of her curls as she buried her face in my shoulder. "It’s okay. It’s just juice. Accidents happen."

Ellie pulled back, sniffing slightly, her big eyes searching my face for any sign of anger. Finding none, a tentative, dazzling smile broke across her little face.

"Just juice?" she whispered.