Chapter 8 - Scars and Sunflowers
It has been three years since the barbecue.
We moved out of Ohio entirely. We bought a beautiful house in North Carolina, surrounded by pine trees and a big, open yard.
Ethan is ten years old now.
He still has a silvery, faded scar in the center of his right palm. It will never completely go away.
But he doesn't hide it anymore. He calls it his "battle scar."
He plays baseball, he rides his bike, and most importantly, he laughs loudly and freely, without fear of being punished for simply existing.
My father and Melissa never spoke to me again.
After my mother went to prison, the fragile glue that held their toxic dynamic together dissolved.
Melissa divorced shortly after, and thankfully, her ex-husband fought for and won full custody of Tyler. We occasionally send Tyler birthday gifts, hoping one day, when he is older, we can reconnect.
My father visits my mother in prison every week, two miserable people trapped in the cage of their own making.
Today is Sunday.
Daniel is in the backyard, firing up our new grill.
The smell of charcoal and sweet barbecue sauce fills the air, mixing with the scent of pine and sunscreen.
I stand on the patio, watching Ethan and his new friends running through the sprinkler, screaming with pure, unadulterated joy.
I don't flinch at the smell of the grill anymore. I don't panic when the kids bump into each other.
We broke the curse.
We cut the rotting branches off our family tree so that our son could grow in the sunlight.
Daniel walks over to me, handing me a glass of lemonade. He kisses my forehead, watching Ethan slide across the wet grass.
"We did good, Sarah," he murmurs.
May you like
I smile, letting out a long, peaceful breath.
"Yeah," I reply, leaning into him. "We did perfectly."
