Part 18

That summer, Trevor tried to reach me again.

This time, by letter from prison. Careful handwriting. False remorse. He blamed the gambling, the stress, Olivia. He even blamed me for “being too trusting.”

“You could’ve helped us instead of trapping us,” he wrote.

I read it once, then fed it to the burn barrel. Watched it curl to ash.

A man who threatened a child doesn’t get a redemption arc.

In September, Emma turned seven. We built her a bigger birdhouse, this one with a roof that actually lined up. She painted it bright blue and hung it near Patricia’s roses.

“It’s for the bluebirds,” she said.

“Good. Bluebirds deserve safe homes,” I said.

Olivia watched quietly, keeping her distance. She’d done the work, but the old closeness was gone. Betrayal had rewritten our bond into something functional, not warm.

After the party, Olivia lingered by the garden gate.

“I’m thinking of going back to school,” she said softly. “Accounting. Something stable.”

I nodded. “Good.”

She hesitated. “Do you think… Patricia would’ve been proud of me for trying?”

The question hit hard.

Patricia would’ve been proud that Olivia chose Emma. Furious about everything else.

I answered honestly. “She’d expect you to try. And to accept that trying doesn’t erase the past.”

Olivia nodded slowly, eyes shining, and walked away without asking for comfort.

The boundary held.