Chapter 8
Restitution did not come fast.
It almost never does.
Darren had spent most of the money.
Some went to gambling.
Some to old debts.
Some to a storage unit full of things he had taken from other women.
My cash was partly restored through victim compensation.
My credit took months to repair.
Mom sold her car and took the bus to work to pay down the home equity line.
I hated that.
I also respected it.
She started giving me receipts.
Not because I asked.
Because transparency had become her apology language.
Every Friday, she handed me a copy of payments made.
I told her she did not have to.
She said, “I know. I do.”
We did not move back into easy closeness.
There were no movie-scene hugs that made everything clean.
Trust returned like a slow engine after years sitting cold.
Crank.
Fail.
Try again.
Catch.
Stall.
Try again.
I stayed with Uncle Ray and Aunt Mara for nine months.
By then, Dad’s truck ran.
The first time the engine turned over, Uncle Ray shouted so loud the neighbor came out.
I sat behind the wheel with both hands on it.
The whole truck shook.
So did I.
Aunt Mara filmed while pretending she was not crying.
Mom stood at the edge of the garage.
I saw her in the rearview mirror.
She had one hand over her mouth.
I rolled down the window.
“You want to ride?”
Her eyes widened.
“With you?”
“It has two seats.”
Uncle Ray muttered, “Technically one and a half.”
Mom stepped closer.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
That made her smile sadly.
“But Dad would want it driven,” I said.
She climbed in.
We drove three blocks.
Slow.
Loud.
No radio.
At the stop sign, she whispered, “Your dad would be so proud.”
I looked ahead.
“Of the truck?”
“Of you.”
I did not answer.
My throat was too tight.
Community college went well.
Better than I expected.
I liked accounting, which annoyed me.
I liked knowing how money moved.
Maybe because money had been used against us.
Maybe because numbers told fewer lies when handled right.
Eddie promoted me at the shop.
Uncle Ray started letting me handle customer estimates.
By spring, I had enough saved for a small apartment.
Not fancy.
One bedroom over a bakery.
It smelled like bread at five every morning.
I signed the lease with Uncle Ray as witness.
Mom came later with a box of dishes.
She stood in the doorway.
“Can I come in?”
I paused.
Then stepped aside.
She looked around the empty apartment.
“It’s nice.”
“It’s small.”
“It’s yours.”
That word landed.
Mine.
She set the dishes on the counter.
“I’m proud of you.”
I looked at her.
“You can be proud and still be part of why I had to grow up too fast.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Don’t make my independence your proof that what happened was okay.”
She nodded.
“I won’t.”
That was the first time I hugged her.
Not long.
May you like
Not all-forgiving.
But real.
