Chapter 14
The next two years passed in a blur.
Good years.
Quiet years.
Sophie turned eleven.
She was in fifth grade.
Tall for her age.
Confident.
Smart.
She started her own little business making allergy-friendly bracelets for kids.
Each one had a small metal plate that said “PEANUT ALLERGY” or “DAIRY ALLERGY” or whatever the kid needed.
She donated half the profits to the food allergy alliance.
I was so proud I could burst.
My business had grown too.
I had five employees now.
We consulted for schools and restaurants all over the country.
I’d written two more books.
I’d been interviewed on the Today show.
People magazine did a story on us.
Life was good.
But I never forgot.
I never let my guard down completely.
Because I knew Evelyn was still there.
Still waiting.
Still angry.
The parole hearing came around again.
Two years since the last one.
Five years since the trial.
This time, I was ready.
I had even more letters of support.
From the judge.
From the prosecution.
From dozens of parents whose kids I’d helped.
From Sophie’s teachers.
From Daniel.
Daniel’s letter was the strongest of all.
He told the board about visiting Evelyn in prison.
About how she still blamed everyone but herself.
About how she’d threatened to “destroy Sarah completely” when she got out.
About how he genuinely feared for our safety if she was released.
The hearing lasted two hours.
The board reviewed everything.
They talked to Evelyn’s prison counselors.
“Evelyn Carter has made no progress,” the counselor said. “She refuses to participate in any programs. She continues to be manipulative and aggressive toward staff and other inmates. She shows absolutely no insight into her crime. In our professional opinion, she remains a danger to the community, specifically to her former daughter-in-law and granddaughter.”
The decision was unanimous.
Parole denied.
Next eligibility in three years.
By then, she’d have served almost the full seven years.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Three more years.
Three more years of safety.
That summer, we took a trip to Italy.
Two weeks in Rome and Florence and the Amalfi Coast.
It was the first time I’d left the country since college.
I was nervous about the food.
About the language barrier.
But it was perfect.
The Italians took allergies seriously.
Every restaurant had allergy menus.
Every waiter knew exactly what was in every dish.
Sophie ate pasta and pizza and gelato without fear.
She took hundreds of photos.
She practiced her Italian with everyone she met.
One night in Florence, we were eating dinner at a small outdoor restaurant near the Ponte Vecchio.
A street musician played the violin.
The lights of the old city reflected in the river.
Sophie was laughing at something Jessica had said.
I watched them.
And I thought about that night three years ago.
Driving to Austin in the dark.
Crying so hard I could barely see the road.
Wondering if we’d ever be happy again.
Wondering if we’d ever be safe.
And here we were.
Halfway across the world.
Happy.
Healthy.
Free.
I raised my glass of wine.
“To us,” I said.
“To us,” Jessica and Sophie echoed.
That night, I wrote in my journal.
I wrote about how far we’d come.
How much we’d survived.
I wrote that strength isn’t about never being afraid.
It’s about being terrified and moving forward anyway.
It’s about standing up when everyone around you is telling you to sit down.
It’s about fighting for your child, even when your own husband won’t.
I wrote that the worst moments of your life can become the foundation for the best ones.
That you don’t know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.
And I wrote that forgiveness isn’t about letting the other person off the hook.
It’s about letting yourself off the hook.
About not carrying the anger and the hate anymore.
Because it only hurts you, not them.
I didn’t forgive Evelyn.
Not even close.
But I’d stopped letting her live in my head rent-free.
She was in prison.
She was miserable.
And that was enough for me.
I closed my journal.
May you like
I went to sleep.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t dream about her at all.
