Chapter 19 - Patricia Outside Prison
Patricia’s release disturbed me more than I expected.
I had imagined thirty years made fear expire.
It did not.
For first month, I checked locks twice.
Nora noticed.
“Do you want alarm upgrade?”
“We already have.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To know where she is.”
We had general supervision notice, not tracking right.
I had to accept.
Safety not total control.
Irony.
Then victim advocate confirmed Patricia complied.
No contact.
No approach.
No social media mention.
No indirect relatives.
Months.
A year.
My body adjusted.
Then a package arrived at office.
No return name.
Police checked because condition.
Inside no threat.
It was blue ceramic bird.
Emily’s? Mine was at home.
This one similar.
Note:
I took this from Emily’s house after she died. It was not mine.
Patricia.
She had stolen one of Emily’s ceramic birds.
Thirty years.
Why keep?
Maybe trophy.
Maybe memory.
She returned.
Was that contact violation?
Victim services said package through unauthorized route could violate. Patricia admitted mailing without approval.
Supervision sanctioned with warning/restriction.
I was furious.
Not because bird.
Because she had decided one small contact was okay.
Again.
She apologized through officer:
“I thought returning property was different.”
No.
No is no.
After sanction, no further.
That mattered.
Change incomplete.
Then I gave bird to Grace.
I did not want.
Grace cried.
“Emily bought pair.”
The one on my desk had mate.
Now reunited? Too symbolic. Grace kept second.
Fine.
Then Patricia’s health declined two years later.
She requested hospice compassionate modification of supervision.
Granted.
No contact.
She died at sixty-eight in a care facility.
No family present.
Her remaining estate:
Modest.
After debts, restitution balance, around $24,000.
She left to a domestic-violence prevention nonprofit? Could feel self-serving. Better to no one; will directed remainder to local food bank. Fine.
No Parker beneficiaries.
No secret diary.
No confession.
Her convictions remained.
Her death ended legal supervision.
Not memory.
Ava said:
“I’m sad.”
Lucas:
“I’m not.”
I said:
“Both fine.”
Then burial.
No one attended from us.
No need.
Then Nora asked:
“Do you forgive now?”
“No.”
Death not deadline.
Years later maybe maybe.
Then I looked at our family records.
Emily murdered.
Patricia punished.
Helen culpable, punished, later forgiven with distance.
Children recovered.
No unresolved appeal.
No looming villain.
Yet my own guilt remained.
I had avoided one case.
Myself.
At sixty-eight, I returned to therapy.
First session in years.
Therapist, Dr. Aaron Wells, asked:
“What brings you?”
“My second wife died.”
He knew case.
“She was not your wife anymore.”
“Right.”
Then:
“I think I’m waiting for someone to sentence me.”
“For?”
“Not seeing.”
He said:
“Courts handled crimes. Parenting accountability is different.”
I knew.
Then:
“What would accountability look like now?”
I thought.
“Not making kids reassure me.”
Good.
So I stopped asking them whether I had been good father after.
They already lived answer.
Ava called weekly because she wanted.
Lucas sent bread.
They trusted Nora.
They brought children later.
Behavior.
No verdict needed.
Then Ava had daughter Emily? That would be sentimental. Maybe she names daughter Wren, not Emily. Good.
Ava married partner Jacob Hart, conservation planner, had daughter Wren.
Lucas later married Sophie Grant? Could use common. No need names.
I became grandfather.
This time I knew:
Grandparent does not mean access by right.
May you like
I asked.
Always.
