Chapter 9 - THE UNTREATED WOUNDS
By late spring, the preliminary legal proceedings against Peter had concluded. Facing overwhelming forensic evidence presented by the federal prosecutors and Brenda's team, Peter pleaded guilty to multiple counts of wire fraud to avoid a maximum thirty-year sentence. He was sentenced to eight years in federal prison and ordered to pay full restitution.
Amy was officially cleared of all criminal co-conspiracy charges after her defense lawyer proved that Peter had forged her signature on several joint shell company documents.
On a rainy Sunday afternoon in May, my front doorbell rang gently.
It wasn't the frantic, aggressive ringing of December. It was a single, hesitant chime.
I walked to the front door, looked through the peep-hole, and opened it.
Amy stood on my porch holding an umbrella. She was wearing simple blue jeans, a plain cotton sweater, and no jewelry. Her face looked tired, but her eyes were clear, steady, and free of the artificial arrogance that had consumed her during her marriage to Peter.
In her hands, she carried a small, covered dish.
"Hi, Mom," Amy said softly, her voice trembling slightly in the cool rain.
"Hello, Amy," I replied, standing in the doorway.
"I... I brought you something," Amy said, holding out the dish. "I baked an apple pie. I used your old recipe from the wooden box."
I looked down at the pie, then looked back up into my daughter's eyes.
"May I come in?" she asked quietly. "Not to ask for a loan, and not to ask for a place to live. Just... just to talk."
I stepped aside and opened the door wider. "Come into the kitchen."
Amy walked into the warm kitchen, set the pie on the wooden table, and sat down in the same wooden chair where Peter had once sat when he plotted to steal my savings.
She pulled a folded piece of notebook paper from her coat pocket and set it beside the pie.
May you like
"What is that?" I asked, sitting down across from her.
"It's my first monthly paycheck stub from the logistics company," Amy said, her eyes glistening with tears. "And a cashier's check for $500. It's the first installment of the money you spent on my college graduation party ten years ago. I know it doesn't undo what I did to you, Mom... but I want to pay you back for every single thing you ever gave me."
