Chapter 21
The next ten years were the sweetest of all.
The years of being grandparents.
Of watching our children become parents.
Of watching our grandchildren grow.
Danny turned ten.
He was the spitting image of James.
Tall for his age.
Brown hair.
Blue eyes.
A smile that could light up a room.
He played soccer, just like his mom.
He was smart.
Funny.
Kind.
He loved to hear stories about his namesake.
About Uncle Daniel.
About Great-Aunt Clara.
About Sunshine the dog.
He’d sit for hours, listening, his eyes wide.
“Tell me again, Grandma. Tell me how you found Aunt Grace.”
And I would.
Over and over.
Because those stories were our history.
Our legacy.
They needed to be told.
They needed to be remembered.
Clara Emily turned eight.
We called her Emmy.
She was Grace’s mini-me.
Quiet.
Sweet.
Loved to draw.
Loved animals.
She had a menagerie of pets.
Cats.
Dogs.
Hamsters.
A parrot that swore like a sailor.
We didn’t know where he’d learned that.
She was the kindest little girl I’d ever known.
She brought home stray animals.
She stood up for kids who were being bullied at school.
She gave her allowance to the homeless man who lived on the edge of town.
She was Clara reborn.
Pure love.
Pure kindness.
Lily was now a successful family law attorney.
She’d started her own firm.
She specialized in child custody cases.
In fighting for kids who had no one else to fight for them.
She’d never lost a case.
Not one.
She was fierce.
Smart.
Relentless.
Just like her mama.
Liam was a successful public defender.
He’d saved dozens of people from wrongful convictions.
He’d given hundreds of people a second chance.
They were changing the world.
Together.
One case at a time.
Grace and Noah had written and illustrated over twenty children’s books together.
They’d won every award there was.
Their books were translated into thirty languages.
Millions of kids all over the world read them.
Kids who were lost.
Kids who were scared.
Kids who needed to know they weren’t alone.
The Magic Unicorn was now a classic.
It was in every school library in the country.
It was required reading in many elementary schools.
It had helped millions of kids.
Grace was changing the world.
One book at a time.
One child at a time.
James and I were now in our sixties.
Older.
A little slower.
A little grayer.
But still happy.
Still in love.
Still working.
James still built homes.
Not as many as he used to.
But he still built a few every year.
He still loved the look on a mother’s face when she got the keys to her new home.
My foundation had now helped find over a thousand missing children.
A thousand families reunited.
A thousand children brought home.
I didn’t travel as much as I used to.
But I still spoke.
Still advocated.
Still fought.
I would never stop.
Not as long as there was one child missing.
Not as long as there was one family hurting.
We still lived in the same farmhouse.
The same one we’d bought all those years ago.
We’d added on over the years.
More bedrooms for the kids and grandkids.
A big kitchen where we all gathered for Sunday dinner.
A studio for Grace when she came to visit.
A study for James.
The big oak tree still stood in the yard.
Daniel’s stone.
Clara’s stone.
Sunshine’s stone.
All in a row.
The grandkids visited them every day.
They left flowers.
They left drawings.
They talked to them.
They knew they were loved.
Even by the people they couldn’t see.
Darlene was now eighty.
Her husband had passed away five years before.
She’d moved into the suite Clara used to live in.
She was family.
Always would be.
She still baked cookies with the grandkids.
Still told them stories.
Still loved them like they were her own.
Sarah and her family still lived nearby.
Her kids were grown now.
Had kids of their own.
We were still the best of friends.
Detective Rao was ninety now.
His wife had passed.
He lived with us too.
In another suite we’d added on.
He spent his days fishing with James.
Teaching the grandkids how to ride horses.
Telling them stories about the trial.
About catching Margaret.
About the day we found Grace.
He was family.
All of them.
Our tribe.
Our people.
Our love.
Sunday dinners were legendary.
Twenty or more people around the big table.
Laughing.
Talking.
Arguing.
Loving.
Food everywhere.
Kids running under the table.
Dogs begging for scraps.
It was loud.
It was chaotic.
It was perfect.
This was the life we’d fought for.
The life we’d almost lost.
The life we’d built with our own two hands.
Brick by brick.
Tear by tear.
Act of love by act of love.
May you like
And it was perfect.
More perfect than I’d ever dared to dream.
