Chapter 11 - THE FLOWER GARDEN
Two years later.
The summer sun warm against my back as I knelt in the soil of our backyard garden at the Lake Geneva house.
The yard stretched down to a private wooden dock where a small sailboat swayed gently on the crystal-blue water. Rows of lavender, hydrangeas, white roses, and sweet peas bloomed in vibrant shades of purple, pink, and white around the porch.
I wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and a light linen dress. My hair had grown back fully—now reaching past my shoulders, thick, healthy, and shining in the sunlight.
From the wooden deck above, the screen door slid open.
Nick walked out carrying a tray with fresh lemonade and two glasses. But he wasn't alone.
Walking slowly beside him, clutching his thumb with her tiny hand, was our fourteen-month-old daughter, Lily. She wore a yellow sunsuit, her soft golden curls bouncing with every clumsy step she took.
“Mama!” Lily squealed, pointing her tiny finger toward the garden.
“Look who just woke up from her nap,” Nick smiled, setting the tray on the patio table and scooping Lily up into his arms.
I stood up, wiping my soil-stained hands on my apron, and walked over to meet them. I took Lily from Nick’s arms, holding her close and kissing her soft cheek as she giggled.
“Did you sleep well, little blossom?” I murmured, nuzzling her neck.
Nick put his arm around my waist, looking down at our daughter with endless love. “Sarah called earlier while you were planting. She said the salon is booked solid through July.”
“That’s wonderful,” I smiled. “And how is Sarah?”
“She’s great,” Nick said. “She mentioned that she received a letter from Greenville last week.”
I looked at Nick, my expression softening. “From Martha?”
Nick nodded slowly. “She’s up for parole consideration next year. Sarah said Martha wrote a long letter asking if she could ever see Lily when she gets out.”
I held my daughter a little tighter, looking over at the tranquil lake water.
“And what did you tell Sarah?” I asked quietly.
Nick took my hand, his grip steady, warm, and unconditional.
“I told her that some traditions are worth breaking,” Nick said gently. “And that our daughter is going to grow up in a family built on respect, love, and protection. Martha made her bed, Clara. She doesn't get to touch our world ever again.”
I looked at my husband—the man who had stood by me when the world was tearing us apart, the man who had chosen truth over toxic loyalty, and who had given me a life beyond my wildest dreams.
I leaned up and kissed his lips, warm and sweet under the afternoon sun.
“I love you, Nick,” I whispered.
May you like
“I love you, Clara,” Nick replied, holding me and our daughter close. “Always.”
Lily reached out her tiny hand, grabbing a soft white rose petal from my hair that had fallen from the garden, giggling as the wind carried it away over the blooming garden and out toward the open lake.
