Part 21
Six months later, the green grass had completely replaced the winter snow.
The rosebushes in the front yard were blooming with vibrant red flowers.
The house looked alive again.
Derek was in the driveway, washing his car, the radio playing softly in the background.
He had taken a promotion at his firm—a real one this time, earned through six months of intense, uninterrupted focus.
I sat on the porch swing, a glass of iced tea in my hand.
The mail carrier walked up the steps and handed me a small stack of envelopes.
Most of it was junk.
But at the bottom of the pile was a plain, white envelope with no return address.
The postmark was from the state women's correctional facility.
My heart gave a slight, familiar thud.
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a single sheet of lined paper.
The handwriting was elegant, though slightly shaky.
"Eleanor," the letter read.
"I don't expect you to forgive me."
"I don't even expect you to read this."
"But I wanted you to know that Felicia is doing well here."
"She's working in the library."
"She told me yesterday that she misses Derek."
"Not his money. Just him."
"She realized too late that he was the only real thing she ever had."
"Cassandra is still angry, but she always was."
"As for me... I have a lot of time to think."
"I look at the walls here, and I realize they are just like the vault."
"Cold steel and safe boxes."
"I spent my whole life trying to secure things that didn't belong to me."
"And in the end, I locked myself away."
"You were right, Eleanor."
"You protect your blood."
"I hope Derek finds someone who deserves him."
"Sincerely, Victoria."
I read the letter twice.
The words felt heavy, but they didn't bring back the fear.
They brought a strange sense of closure.
I folded the paper and put it back in the envelope.
"Mom!" Derek called out from the driveway, wiping his forehead with a towel.
"Are we still going to the hardware store before it closes?"
"Yes, Derek," I called back, standing up from the swing.
I walked inside the house.
I opened the kitchen drawer, the one where the blue folder used to live.
The folder was gone now, replaced by a new recipe book and some old family photographs.
I slid Victoria's letter into the very back of the drawer, underneath the old memories.
It was a part of our history now.
But it didn't define our future.
I grabbed my purse, locked the front door, and walked down the steps to join my son.
The sun was warm on my face.
The air was sweet.
May you like
Our home was safe.
And for the first time in a long time, the floorboards didn't creak.
