Anna giggled, clearly sensing the tension without understanding it. “You two talk like characters in a movie.”
“We’re still figuring out the script,” Sarah said, and Jerome smiled.
That night, after the kids were tucked in and the house was quiet, Sarah walked into the kitchen and found Jerome wiping down the counter.
“I was thinking,” she began, “about what you said. About family.”
He turned to face her.
“I want you to stay,” she said. “Not just for dinners and repairs. For all of it.”
Jerome searched her face, careful not to misread her. “For real?” he asked.
“For real.”
He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time to change her mind. But she didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. When he took her hand, it felt like the closing of one door and the opening of another—a different kind of chapter. One built not just on rescue, but on choice.
They stood in the kitchen for a long time, no need for more words. Outside, the rain softened into mist, and inside, something settled.
The next week, Sarah met with the director of the community center. “We’d like to offer you a spot on our advisory board,” the woman said. “Your story struck a chord, and we think you could help shape our programs moving forward.”
Sarah blinked. “I’ve never been on a board.”
“You’ve lived more than half of us ever will,” the director said. “And you’re honest. That’s what people need.”
Sarah accepted, humbled and daunted, and walked home that evening feeling something new. A purpose that went beyond survival, beyond healing. When she told Jerome, he wrapped her in a proud embrace. “Looks like you’re officially a force of nature.”
“I prefer force of nurture,” she quipped.
He laughed. “Either way, remind me never to underestimate you again.”
Later, Sarah sat in her writing room, looking at the open pages of her book in progress. She reread her last sentence and added one more beneath it. I didn’t just escape. I rebuilt. And now, I help others do the same.
She closed the notebook gently. It was still raining outside, but inside, every part of her felt rooted. No longer a woman defined by where she’d been, but by where she was going.
The letter arrived with no warning. No return address. Again. But this time, it wasn’t from her mother. The handwriting was harsher, slanted and hurried. Sarah recognized it instantly. She hadn’t seen it since the day she left the courthouse, years ago. Her hands shook as she tore it open.
Sarah,
I know what I did. I know there’s no apology strong enough to fix it. But I’m trying. I’ve been sober for six months. I’m working a program. My sponsor says I have to make amends. Not just for me, but for the people I hurt.
I’m not asking for anything. Just wanted you to know, I’m still alive. And I finally see it… what I became. What I did to you. To our kids.
If you ever want to talk, here’s a number. If not, I understand.
Darnell.
Sarah sat frozen. The letter felt like a crack in the foundation she’d spent years building. Not wide enough to destroy anything, but deep enough to shake her.
She walked into the yard, letting the cold air bite her skin. She didn’t tell Jerome right away. Not even when he found her sitting on the porch swing, the letter clenched in her fist. He sat beside her in silence.
Finally, she spoke. “It’s from Darnell.”
Jerome’s jaw tightened. “He’s out?”
“No, still in. But he’s in recovery. Says he’s clean. Says he’s sorry.”
Jerome waited. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Angry. Relieved. Disgusted. And somehow… not surprised.”
“You don’t owe him anything,” Jerome said gently.
“I know,” she whispered. “But part of me wants to hear it. Not for him. For me.”
“You don’t have to decide now.”
She nodded. “I won’t. But I won’t ignore it, either.”
That night, after the kids were asleep and the house was still, Sarah sat at her desk and wrote. Not a reply. But a letter she never intended to send.
Darnell,
You broke me. You broke things in me I didn’t even know could crack. You made me question my worth, my strength, my voice. But I found all of it again. Without you. Because of you, maybe. But never with you.
I don’t need your apology to heal. But I hope for your own soul that you mean it. If you ever speak to Anna, or Elijah, it will be because they choose to. Not because I let you back in. You lost that right when you raised your fist instead of your heart.
I forgive you because I want peace. But I won’t forget. And I won’t go back.
Sarah
She folded the letter and slipped it into the same box with the others. Another chapter written. Another page turned.
A few days later, Sarah stood before her first advisory board meeting. It was held in a community space on the east side, where the folding chairs were worn but welcoming and the coffee came in mismatched mugs. The other board members—all older women, social workers, and counselors—greeted her with warmth.
They discussed upcoming projects: housing initiatives for women leaving abusive relationships, mentorship programs for teenage mothers, emergency food pantries. Sarah listened, took notes. Then she raised her hand.
“I’d like to propose a writing workshop,” she said. “For survivors. A place where they can tell their stories. Not just for healing, but to reclaim their narrative.”
The room quieted. One of the older women, Miss Linda, nodded slowly. “That’s powerful. What would you call it?”
Sarah thought for a moment, then said, “Still Standing.”..
