Chapter 10: A Clean Slate
Three months later, the morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my riverfront apartment in downtown Portland.
The autumn leaves along the Willamette River were turning brilliant shades of amber and gold. Inside, the apartment smelled of lavender baby lotion and fresh coffee.
I sat on the soft rug in the center of the nursery, holding a colorful rattle. In front of me, Ethan—now four months old, chubby, pink-cheeked, and thriving—rolled over onto his tummy and let out a bright, bubbling laugh.
His breathing was steady, strong, and effortless.
My laptop sat open on the dining table nearby. The divorce had been finalized in record time; David, facing potential misdemeanor charges and drowning in legal bills, had signed the settlement agreement without a single contest. He had moved out of state to live with Theresa, completely removed from our lives.
I reached out and scooped Ethan into my arms, holding him close. His tiny hand reached up, his fingers wrapping securely around my thumb.
For days after his birth, they had tried to convince me that I was weak, hysterical, and delusional. They had expected me to doubt my own eyes and ignore the voice inside me that screamed something was wrong.
But my career had taught me that numbers, timestamps, and evidence never lie.
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And motherhood had taught me something even more powerful: a mother's instinct is the sharpest instrument in the world.
"We're safe, little man," I whispered into his soft hair, watching the sunlight dance across the river below. "We're safe, and we're just getting started."
