Chapter 24 - The Morning Light
I turned thirty eight at the lake house.
No gala.
Marina.
Ethan.
Olivia.
Raymond.
Leah.
Dr. Hale and his wife.
A few friends.
Morning brunch.
Dad’s west window filled kitchen with light.
We ate too much.
Marina gave me a ridiculous mug:
TRUST, BUT VERIFY.
I threw napkin at her.
Raymond said:
“Accurate.”
After everyone left, I walked dock alone.
My surgery anniversary was two weeks later.
Nine years.
The scar had faded.
Still visible.
I touched it sometimes when anxious.
Not because fragile.
Because memory lives in body.
I sat.
Phone buzzed.
A final email forwarded from prison correspondence service.
Adrian would be eligible for release planning within two years after credits and sentence calculation.
He asked whether I objected to him contacting me after release.
I stared.
Then answered through approved channel:
Do not contact me directly after release. All necessary legal matters are complete. I wish you well, but I do not want a relationship.
No insult.
No threat.
No maybe.
He replied weeks later:
Understood.
One word.
The same thing I had needed from him during marriage.
Respect a boundary.
Late.
But there.
I deleted email.
Then opened Dad’s note about west window.
Morning light matters more than fashion.
He was right.
May you like
I laughed.
Dead parents remain annoyingly right about random things.
