Chapter 17 - Reclaiming the Past
Three days later, the morning sun poured brightly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our $8.5 million apartment—the home Savannah had purchased with her own hard-earned independence, which Bernice had tried so desperately to taint.
The heavy red suitcase in the guest room was gone, replaced by empty spaces and the quiet scent of fresh disinfectant and ocean-breeze candles. The oppressive, toxic weight that had hung over our household for three years had completely vanished.
There was a soft knock at the private elevator foyer.
I opened the door to reveal a medical transport team gently wheeling an elderly woman wrapped in a warm cashmere blanket into the apartment. Her face was lined with age and past suffering, but her eyes—bright, sharp, and unmistakably familiar—searched the room until they landed on me.
“Christopher?” her voice trembled.
I dropped to my knees beside her wheelchair, taking her frail, cold hands in mine. “I’m right here, Grandma. You’re finally home. You’re never going back there again.”
May you like
She reached up, her trembling fingers gently touching my cheek, before looking past me to where Savannah stood in the hallway, offering a warm, welcoming smile while resting her hand over her pregnant belly.
“And that must be Savannah,” Grandma whispered, tears spilling over her eyelids. “The brave girl who saved us all.”
