Years later, she wrote me a letter.
I almost burned it.
Instead, I read it.
She apologized.
Not beautifully.
Not perfectly.
She admitted jealousy.
She admitted wanting what I had.
She admitted Garrett made her feel chosen.
She admitted part of her knew something was wrong long before the river.
Then she wrote one line that stayed with me.
I thought being loved by him meant I had won something from you.
I know now he was using both of us differently.
I believed that.
It did not excuse her.
But I believed it.
I never became close to Penelope again.
Some relationships do not need resurrection.
Still, when Evelyn turned five, I sent a birthday gift.
The child had done nothing.
That mattered.
The hardest part of healing was not Garrett.
It was my own body.
For years after, I could not drink warm milk.
I could not sit comfortably in a car if the windows were closed.
I checked every seat belt twice.
Water terrified me.
The first time Tobias suggested we go near the river, I nearly screamed at him.
So we did not.
Then one summer, three years later, I went by myself.
Not Savannah Creek.
A small lake near Maryland.
I stood at the edge.
Bare feet in the sand.
Water touched my toes.
Then ankles.
I almost backed away.
Instead, I stayed.
Nothing happened.
The water rose only because I walked forward.
Not because someone trapped me.
That difference mattered.
I swam ten feet.
Then twenty.
Then back.
When I reached shore, I cried.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I was alive.
