“I know I can,” I said, my voice steady.
“You don’t own us, Janice. Not anymore.”
Her threats rolled off me like water, and for the first time, I saw her for what she was: powerless without our compliance. A year later, I stood on the balcony of our tiny apartment, watching Sarah water the potted plants she’d insisted we bring.
There was a lightness to her now, a freedom I hadn’t seen in years. Therapy was helping her unpack the weight of her mother’s influence, and though the scars remained, they were healing. “We did it,” she said softly, sliding her hand into mine.
I nodded, pulling her close. “Yeah. We did.”
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Life wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
And that was enough.
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