One year after the trial, I stood on my porch and looked at the front door. It was a warm evening in late spring, and the light was golden, and the neighborhood was quiet. There were no cars in the driveway. There was no one coming up the walk. There was no doorbell ringing.
I had spent the last year rebuilding my life. I had taken the art class and discovered that I was terrible at painting but good at pottery. I had promoted at work. I had traveled to three countries. I had gone on a few dates, some bad, some okay, none serious. I had planted a garden in the backyard, tomatoes and herbs and a small lemon tree that was still getting used to the climate. I had made new friends and reconnected with old ones. I had found a new therapist, one who specialized in boundaries and family dynamics
