Just certain.
That was the ending I wanted. Not revenge.
Safety.
Truth.
A child who learned that when someone hurts her, her mother doesn’t negotiate for a place at their table.
She builds a different table.
One where love isn’t conditional.
One where strength doesn’t mean silence.
One where nobody ever has to earn warmth by enduring cruelty.
And every Christmas after that, we made our own tradition.
Cookies in pajamas. Cheap ornaments. Music too loud. Friends who felt like family. A tree that leaned slightly because we never bothered to make it perfect.
Because after everything we survived, perfection didn’t matter.
Protection did.
Part 6
The first Christmas after the trial felt strange in a way I didn’t expect.
I thought I’d feel triumphant. I thought I’d feel vindicated every time I saw a news headline or heard someone mention Marcus Holloway’s sentence.
Instead, I felt… quiet.
Like my body had been running on adrenaline for so long that when the danger finally stepped back, my nervous system didn’t know what to do with the space. Zuri was healing, but healing doesn’t arrive with fireworks. It arrives in tiny moments: a flinch that doesn’t happen, a laugh that comes easily, a night where she sleeps through without waking from nightmares.
We were in a new apartment by then, not because we’d lost our old home, but because I couldn’t stand driving past streets that smelled like that night. The new place was smaller, warmer, and filled with soft things: blankets on every chair, a tiny string of lights around Zuri’s bedroom door, a kettle that whistled like comfort.
Maya came over on Christmas Eve with cookie dough and a bag of ridiculous ornaments shaped like tacos and dinosaurs.
“New tradition,” she announced. “We decorate with things that make us laugh.”
Zuri’s eyes lit up. “Can we put the taco on top?”
“Absolutely,” Maya said.
We did. The taco leaned like a crooked star, and it made Zuri giggle until she snorted, which made her giggle harder.
That night, while Zuri slept, I sat on the couch with a cup of tea and let myself feel the grief I’d been holding back.
Grief for the father I never had. Grief for the childhood version of me who had learned early that love in that house was conditional. Grief for the version of Zuri’s life that should have been—one where holidays were safe and grandparents were gentle.
Amanda had warned me about this.
“When the fight ends,” she’d said, “your body finally has room to feel what you couldn’t afford to feel during the battle.”
She was right.
Christmas morning, Zuri opened gifts in pajamas. Nothing expensive. A sketchbook, markers, a plush blanket with stars. She hugged everything like it was treasure. When she unwrapped a small box from Maya and found a tiny bracelet inside, she whispered, “This is my brave bracelet.”
Maya’s eyes softened. “That’s exactly what it is.”
After breakfast, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I stared at it too long.
Then it buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
The old fear pricked at me, sharp and automatic.
Maya noticed. “Don’t answer,” she said.
“I’m not going to,” I replied, but my throat felt tight.
The voicemail icon popped up. I didn’t listen right away. I didn’t want Marcus’s voice in my living room, even through a speaker.
Later, after Zuri went to play in her room, I listened.
It was my brother.
His voice sounded smaller than it used to.
“Hey,” Kellen said, and there was no polish in it anymore. “I… I know you blocked me. I don’t blame you. I’m calling from a different phone. I’m not trying to fight. I just… Dad wants to see Zuri.”
My stomach turned.
“He can’t,” I said out loud to the empty room, and the certainty in my own voice surprised me.
Kellen continued. “He says he’s sorry. He’s… he’s scared in there. He says it was a mistake.”
A mistake.
I felt heat rise behind my eyes.
“He wants mercy,” Kellen added. “He’s asking me to ask you to… drop the no-contact. Just let him write her a letter. Something.”
I sat very still.