I was in a horrific accident and left unconscious. The doctors called my parents—they said…

The hospital footage was damning, and James Wright was relentless in protecting my interests. The conservatorship request was denied. The probate judge ruled in my favor regarding Grandmother’s estate, the house, and everything in it was legally mine.

Three weeks after our cafe meeting, Allison called me. They’re filing for a hearing to contest the adoption, she said without preamble. They’re claiming Grandmother Martha coerced them into adopting you that they never wanted to in the first place.

The words should have hurt. Instead, I felt oddly calm. Let them.

The documentation is clear. The adoption was legal. It’s not about winning for them anymore, Allison said sadly.

It’s about hurting you. I know. I’d always known.

How are you holding up? I moved out of my apartment. I’m staying with a friend from the hospital. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t be near them right now. I’m sorry. And I was.

Despite everything, Allison was losing her parents too, the loving, devoted parents she had known her whole life. Learning they were capable of such cruelty must have shattered her world. Don’t be.

It’s not your fault. She paused. Actually, I was wondering.

Your grandmother’s house is pretty big, right? I smiled despite myself. Are you inviting yourself to live with me, Allison? Just temporarily, she said quickly. Until I find a new place.

And only if you’re comfortable with it. It was a big step. Bigger than coffee at a cafe.

But perhaps it was time for big steps. The East Wing has its own bathroom, I told her. And I’m rarely home before 8 anyway.

Really? You mean it? Small steps, remember? We’ll see how it goes. After we hung up, I sat looking out the window of my temporary apartment. Somewhere across town, my parents were plotting their next move, still unable to accept the truth of what they’d done.

Still unable to see me as their daughter deserving of love. But for the first time since the accident, I wasn’t defined by their rejection. I was defined by my survival, my resilience, and the family I was choosing to build around me.

The letter had done its work. Not by changing them. Nothing could do that.

But by freeing me from needing them to change. Six months after the accident, Dr. Chin declared my physical recovery complete. The last cast came off, the final follow-up MRI showed no remaining brain trauma, and my physical therapy sessions were reduced to once a month for maintenance.

You’re a medical miracle, she told me. During our final appointment. Most patients with your injuries would still be in intensive rehab.

I had good motivation, I replied, thinking of the letter, of my parents, of the life I was determined to reclaim. I moved into Grandmother Martha’s house, my house now, in early spring. The Victorian needed updates, but I left the bones of it intact…