Their stepmother poured cold milk over two sisters until their father walked in.

The next few years were good.

I graduated high school. I went to college. I studied criminal justice. I wanted to help people. To be the person who believed victims. Who protected them. Who made sure no one else went through what we went through.

Ava grew. She was twelve now. Happy. Healthy. She played soccer. She had friends. She talked about Mom. She didn't have nightmares anymore. She was thriving.

My dad's business grew. He had three stores now. He was successful. He was happy. He'd started dating—someone nice. A woman named Karen. A teacher. Kind. Gentle. She didn't try to replace Mom. She just… was there. And Ava and I liked her.

We visited Mom's grave every Sunday. We brought flowers. We talked to her. We told her about our lives. We told her about Denise. About the trial. About justice.

And we told her we loved her. We always would.

But Denise wasn't done. Even from prison, she found ways to cause trouble. She appealed. Again and again. She wrote letters. She gave interviews. She claimed she was innocent. She claimed my dad was guilty. She claimed we were lying.

No one believed her. But she kept trying.

And then, one day, a letter came. Not from Denise. From her lawyer.

She was dying. Cancer. The same kind my mother had. Irony. She had months. Maybe weeks. She wanted to see us. She wanted to confess. She wanted to "set the record straight."

My dad said no. Ava said no. But I—I was curious. I wanted to hear it. I wanted her to say it. To admit it. To apologize.

I went alone. To the prison hospital. She was thin. Pale. Her hair was gone. She looked like a ghost.

"Maya," she said. Her voice was weak. "You came."

"I came to hear you confess," I said. "Did you kill my mother?"

She was quiet for a long time. Then she nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I did. She was in the way. I wanted your father. I wanted his money. I wanted this life. And she was dying anyway. I thought—what's a few weeks? What's the harm? I was young. I was stupid. I was greedy. And I ruined everything."

She looked at me. Her eyes were wet. "I'm sorry, Maya. I'm sorry for your mother. I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry for Ava. I was a monster. And I'm sorry."

I looked at her. This woman who'd killed my mother. Who'd abused me and my sister. Who'd tried to destroy our family. Who was now dying, alone, in a prison hospital.

I should've felt angry. I should've felt triumphant. I should've felt something.

But I just felt… sad. For her. For the life she'd wasted. For the choices she'd made. For the woman she could've been.

"I don't forgive you," I said. "I will never forgive you. But I hope you find peace. Wherever you're going."

I stood up to leave.

"Maya," she said. "Wait. There's something else. Something I should've told you a long time ago."

I turned.

"Your mother—she knew. About me. About your father. She knew I was seeing him. Before she died. She confronted me. In the hospital. She said she'd tell your father. She said she'd ruin me. I was scared. That's why I did it. That's why I gave her the extra medication. I was scared she'd expose me."

She coughed. Blood came to her lips.

"I'm sorry," she said again. Then she closed her eyes.