I clinked mine against hers.
Life settled into a rhythm. Not perfect. Just honest.
I still caught myself worrying about money, even though I no longer needed to. Old habits die slowly. I still felt a twinge of guilt when I chose myself first. But the twinge faded faster each time.
Two years after the lawsuit, I ran into my father in a hardware store.
We froze in the aisle, carts between us. He looked smaller somehow. Grayer. Tired in a way that went beyond age.
“Elise,” he said.
I waited.
“You look happy,” he said. “I heard about the bookstore.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded, cleared his throat. “We were wrong. About everything.”
The words were awkward, unused. I believed him anyway.
“I appreciate that,” I said.
We parted without promises. Without closure wrapped in a bow. Just two people acknowledging the truth too late to change anything.
That night, I sat on my porch with a glass of wine and looked out over my garden. Roses climbed the fence. Lavender spilled over the borders. The air smelled like summer and dirt and growth.
My phone buzzed. A text from Jennifer asking about drinks.
I smiled.
Three years after the lottery, a young woman stood in front of me at the counter, her hands shaking slightly as she pulled a crumpled ticket from her bag.
“I just won fifty thousand dollars,” she whispered. “And I’m scared my family will take it.”
I looked at her and saw myself, sitting in my car, heart racing, instinct screaming to hide.
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