Daniel came to visit her twice that week. Margaret wasn’t mentioned. He brought books, puzzles, tried to joke around. Olivia didn’t say much, but she let him sit beside her. I could tell she missed him. I could also tell she was watching—waiting to see if he’d bring her back into our lives.
A week later, Daniel called me. Said Margaret had “gone too far,” but that she was “from another generation” and “didn’t mean harm.” He said things like “maybe she just snapped,” and “she still loves Olivia.”
I listened quietly.
Olivia’s hair has started to grow back—soft and short, curling slightly at the ends. She brushes it herself now. Every morning. And every night. It’s part of her healing. A ritual. A quiet reclaiming of something that was taken from her.
She still sees her therapist, but she laughs now. She speaks. She even danced at her school’s spring recital last month, twirling with short hair and a proud smile. Her strength humbles me every day.
We moved into a smaller house closer to my sister’s. A fresh start. No memories in the walls. No shadows.
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