“I didn’t erase it,” he said. “You did.”
For the first time, Rebecca looked truly broken.
Then, desperate, she turned to me.
“Elizabeth, say something. Tell him not to be so cruel.”
I looked at her for a long moment.
Then I said, “There’s no place here for someone like you. Go home.”
The words landed.
She recognized them.
Everyone did.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Robert stepped beside me.
“The staff will escort you out now.”
Rebecca’s mother began protesting, but Rebecca’s father stopped her.
“No,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
Rebecca did not move until two staff members approached. Then she stepped back, eyes fixed on me with a hatred that no longer frightened me.
At the door, she turned.
“You’ll regret this.”
I shook my head.
“No. I already regret letting you remain in my life this long.”
She left.
The door closed.
The silence lasted only a few seconds before my daughter began to cry. The sound broke the tension so completely that my mother rushed to soothe her, Robert exhaled, and Thomas sat down as if his legs had lost strength.
I took my daughter back into my arms.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s over.”
This time, I believed it.
There were legal aftershocks, of course. Rebecca and her mother were formally warned about the anonymous posts. Several accounts disappeared immediately. One account had been connected to an email used by Rebecca’s mother’s old social circle. That was enough to silence them.
Rebecca’s father sent one final letter.
Not a request.
Not an excuse.
An apology.
I read it once, then put it away.
Forgiveness did not come.
But peace did.
And peace was enough.
Months passed.
My daughter grew louder, rounder, and more demanding. She learned to roll over, then crawl backward, then scream whenever Thomas tried to leave without saying goodbye properly. Robert said she had inherited my stubbornness. My mother said she had inherited Thomas’s attachment issues. Thomas said nothing because he was busy letting the baby chew on his sleeve.
One evening, we gathered at my mother’s house for dinner. Thomas arrived late and looked strangely nervous.
I narrowed my eyes.
“What?”
“Why do you assume something happened?”
“Because you look like you’re about to announce you joined a cult.”
Robert laughed.
Thomas cleared his throat.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet eventually.”
The room went silent.
My mother put down her chopsticks.
“Thomas…”
“It’s still early,” he said quickly. “She’s a colleague from another department. Kind. Calm. She knows what happened, and she said there’s no need to rush.”
I felt warmth bloom in my chest.
“That sounds good.”
He looked at me uncertainly.
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
Then I pointed at him.
“But Robert and I get to meet her at least ten times before any proposal.”
Robert raised his hand.
“And I reserve the right to ban her from Harrington’s if she stares at me weirdly.”
My mother added, “And I will judge her tea manners.”
Thomas groaned.
“You’re all impossible.”
But he was smiling.
A real smile.
Later that night, after everyone had eaten and my daughter had fallen asleep in Robert’s arms, I stepped out onto the veranda for air. Thomas followed with two cups of tea.
“Here.”
“Thanks.”
We stood side by side, looking at the quiet garden.
After a while, he said, “Do you ever think about that day?”
I did not pretend not to understand.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
The night air was cool. Somewhere inside, Robert laughed softly at something my mother said.
Thomas looked down into his tea.
“I used to think that wedding was the day my life fell apart.”
“And now?”
“Now I think it was the day I was spared.”
I smiled faintly.
“That’s one way to see it.”
He looked through the window at my sleeping daughter.
“She’s lucky.”
“Who?”
“Your daughter. She has you and Robert.”
“She has you too.”
His ears turned red.
“I’m just her uncle.”
“You’re Thomas. That’s more than enough.”
He looked embarrassed, but pleased.
I thought again of Rebecca’s words. How she had tried to make me small. How she looked at my pregnancy and saw not life, not family, not joy, but competition.