Chapter 9 - Spring Cleaning
By the time April sunshine began to warm the brick sidewalks of Richmond, our lives had settled into a rhythm that felt stable, predictable, and deeply secure.
The legal battles had finally concluded in March. Sarah Jenkins had successfully negotiated a modified permanent custody agreement: I retained sole legal custody, while Mark was granted carefully structured, unsupervised weekend visitation—contingent upon his continued attendance at family therapy and his proven ability to maintain a safe, independent household.
Mark had followed through on every single condition. He had sold his old house, moved into a bright, sunny townhouse near the park, and never missed a single scheduled weekend. Heather was entirely out of the picture, having moved across the state to live with family while her own legal and personal life unraveled. Jonah still called Grace every Sunday afternoon to talk about school, video games, and his new dog, acting as a living bridge between two worlds that had nearly collided in disaster.
On a bright Saturday morning in mid-April, Mom and I were working in our backyard garden, turning over the rich, dark soil to plant tomatoes and bell peppers.
Grace and Eli were playing badminton on the lawn, their laughter carrying over the fence as the bright neon shuttlecock sailed back and forth through the spring air.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my gardening apron.
I pulled it out, expecting a text from the grocery store delivery service. Instead, it was an email notification from Mark.
I opened it, wiping a smudge of dirt off my forehead with the back of my gloved hand.
Nicole, Just wanted to let you know I finished the final parenting seminar course this morning. Dr. Evans signed off on the last evaluation report. I know we still have a long way to go, but I wanted to thank you—and your mom—for not letting me stay blind. Grace and Eli told me yesterday they like my new kitchen. It's a small victory, but I'll take it. Mark.
I stared at the screen for a moment, a small, genuine smile touching the corners of my lips.
Mom paused her work with the garden trowel, looking up at me with sharp, assessing eyes. "From Mark?"
"From Mark," I said, locking the phone screen and slipping it back into my apron pocket.
"And?" Mom asked, raising an eyebrow.
May you like
"And," I replied, kneeling back down in the warm dirt and picking up my trowel, "he says his new kitchen has a table. And this time, there's real food on it."
Mom let out a short, satisfied huff of laughter, driving her trowel deep into the soil. "Well. It's about time."
