Chapter 8
Tabitha pled guilty three months later.
Twelve felony counts.
Grand larceny.
Fraud.
Assault.
Attempted extortion.
Conspiracy.
She was sentenced to seven years in a maximum-security women’s prison, followed by ten years’ probation, and ordered to pay full restitution to every single one of her victims — including us.
She did not speak at the sentencing.
She did not look at us.
She did not apologize.
She simply stood there, head down, while the judge read the sentence, and then let the bailiffs lead her away.
It was over.
Really, truly over.
But healing took longer.
Robin threw himself into his work.
He took over the day-to-day running of the foundation, turning it into something bigger and better than it had ever been.
He started a new program specifically for victims of domestic and financial abuse — women who had been lied to, manipulated, stolen from, just like Tabitha’s victims.
Women who had been too afraid or too ashamed to come forward.
He hired counselors.
He set up emergency housing grants.
He created a legal fund to help women fight back against the people who had hurt them.
He told me once, late one night, that it was his way of making amends.
Of taking the worst thing that had ever happened to him and turning it into something good.
I told him his father would have been prouder of him than words could ever say.
I meant it.
That fall, we had a party at the house.
Not a big, fancy society party.
Just the staff and their families.
Teresa’s grandchildren ran up and down the grand staircase, screaming with laughter.
Luis taught the older boys how to carve pumpkins on the back lawn.
Maria outdid herself, laying out enough food to feed an army.
Robin stood on the porch, a beer in his hand, watching them, and smiled.
It was the first real, uncomplicated smile I had seen on his face in almost a year.
“Thank you,” he said, when I walked over and joined him.
“For what?”
“For everything,” he said. “For not giving up on me. For not letting me marry her. For loving me even when I was being an idiot.”
I laughed.
“You’re my son,” I said. “Loving you even when you’re being an idiot is literally in the job description.”
He was quiet for a minute.
“Do you think I’ll ever be able to trust anyone again?” he said quietly. “After all that? After being so wrong about someone I thought I loved?”
I thought about it.
I thought about losing his father when he was only fifty-two, about the years I had spent alone after, about the people who had told me I would never love anyone the way I had loved him.
I thought about how they had been right — and how they had also been wrong.
“Trust isn’t something you give away all at once,” I said. “It’s not a light switch you flip on or off. It’s built. Slowly. One small, honest moment at a time. You don’t have to trust everyone right away, Robin. You don’t even have to trust most people. You just have to keep your eyes open. And remember that the right person — the real person — will never, ever make you choose between them and the people who love you. They will never be cruel to someone who can’t fight back. They will never lie to you. And they will never, ever make you feel like you have to apologize for being who you are.”
I squeezed his arm.
“You’ll know her when you meet her,” I said. “I promise.”
He smiled.
May you like
“Okay, Mom,” he said. “I’ll take your word for it.”
And as we stood there, watching the people we loved laugh and eat and be happy together, under the soft golden light of the setting sun, I believed it with every fiber of my being.
