“Mine is here.” She gestured toward Mikey, the small apartment, the stack of child psychology books on the windowsill. Toward the new life she had built herself, without anyone’s help.
Kyle looked at his son. Something flickered in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or the late understanding of what he had lost.
“Can I come by?” he asked. — “See him?” “On schedule,” Marina answered.
— “Every Sunday, two to six, just like the court ordered.” He nodded and stood. At the door, he turned back.
— “You’ve changed,” he said. — “You’re different now. Stronger.”
Marina didn’t answer. She closed the door behind him and went back to her son. Mikey dropped the giraffe and reached his arms up to her.
She picked him up, held him close, and he wrapped his arms around her neck with the absolute trust children reserve for the most important person in their world. “Mama,” he said.
His first word. Clear, sure, real. Marina stood in the middle of her little apartment with her son in her arms and understood.
None of it had been for nothing. The sleepless nights, the recordings on her phone, the folders of documents, the court dates and evaluations, the fear, the despair, the resolve. All of it had brought her here.
To a place where she could finally breathe. She had learned how to fight, and that made all the difference.
