Chapter 9 - REBUILDING THE SANCTUARY
Three weeks later, the sun was shining warm and bright over Portland.
The broken glass on the garage window had been replaced with reinforced, frosted impact glass. A new, state-of-the-art security system had been installed, complete with digital cameras monitoring every angle of the property, linked directly to my phone and the local police department.
The second-floor bedroom—Emma’s bedroom—had been completely restored.
I had spent the weekend painting the walls a soft, warm sage green, her favorite color. We threw away the old mattress that Olivia had slept on, replacing it with a brand-new plush mattress, fresh linen sheets, and a new mustard-yellow throw blanket that Emma had picked out herself.
At 2:00 p.m. on Sunday, Emma sat on her new window seat, her bandaged right hand now replaced by a small, neat silicone scar across her palm. The stitches were gone, and the physical therapist said she would regain ninety-nine percent of her hand mobility within two months.
She was looking down at a sketchpad, drawing a detailed landscape of the Cascade Mountains with her left hand, her face peaceful and relaxed.
I walked into her room, carrying two glasses of fresh iced tea.
"How's the wrist feeling today, sweetie?" I asked, setting a glass on her desk.
"It doesn't ache anymore when it rains," Emma smiled, setting her pencil down. "Look, Mom. I learned how to shade with my left hand."
I looked at the drawing. It was beautiful—detailed, precise, and full of light.
"Your father called this morning," I said gently, sitting on the edge of the window seat beside her. "He asked how your hand was doing."
Emma looked out the window toward the bright green lawn below. "What did you tell him?"
"I told him you were healing," I replied. "He asked if he could take you out for ice cream next weekend."
Emma remained quiet for a moment, tracing the soft cotton of her new throw blanket with her fingers.
"Do you want to go?" I asked, keeping my voice entirely free of pressure. "It's completely your choice, Emma. You never have to see anyone you don't feel safe around."
Emma took a slow breath, looking up at me with eyes that looked far older and wiser than sixteen.
May you like
"I think I want to wait a little longer," she said softly. "I want to finish painting my room first."
I reached out, gently squeezing her uninjured left hand. "Take all the time you need, baby. This room belongs to you. This whole house belongs to you."
