Chapter 9 - Rebuilding the Foundation
By the spring of the following year, the dust had fully settled.
My consulting business bounced back stronger than ever. The public exposure of the lawsuit, ironically, had turned me into something of a folk hero among female entrepreneurs and corporate leaders. Clients respected my absolute refusal to tolerate fraud or emotional manipulation, seeing it as proof of my unyielding business ethics.
We expanded our team, hiring two senior consultants and moving into a beautiful brick office loft in downtown Chicago.
Micah and I finally took our postponed honeymoon.
Instead of a quick weekend trip, we spent three weeks in Italy—driving a rented convertible through the winding coastal roads of the Amalfi Coast, eating fresh pasta in rustic trattorias, and drinking Chianti while watching sunsets over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
There were no panicked midnight phone calls. No demands for emergency bank transfers. No family drama demanding to be subsidized.
For twenty-one days, my phone remained on silent in the bottom of my leather tote bag.
One afternoon, while sitting at an outdoor café in Positano, Micah raised his glass of Aperol Spritz toward me.
“To peace,” he said softly.
I clinked my glass against his. “To peace.”
“Do you ever think about them?” he asked gently.
I looked out at the deep blue ocean, watching the white sails of boats gliding across the horizon.
“Sometimes,” I admitted honestly. “I think about how easy it would have been to just keep paying. To keep writing the checks, taking the abuse, and pretending we were a happy family just to avoid the mess.”
“Why didn't you?” Micah asked.
“Because peace built on a lie isn't peace, Micah,” I said, looking into his eyes. “It’s just hostage negotiation. And I’m finally done paying the ransom.”
When we returned to Chicago in May, I received a letter in the mail from the Illinois Department of Corrections.
It was a printed administrative notification regarding inmate Elaine Holt. She had submitted three formal requests for prison visitation rights with me.
I picked up a red pen, checked the box marked REJECT ALL FUTURE CONTACT, and dropped the form into the blue mailbox on the corner of our street.
May you like
I felt no hatred. I felt no urge for vengeance. I simply felt nothing at all.
My mother had made her choices, and the universe had returned the exact measure of justice she deserved.
