We handed her the documents — signed statements, medical summaries, evidence ready for the board and the press. Her composure cracked when her phone lit up with an emergency board session.
“You’ll regret this,” she warned.
“No,” I answered calmly. “You’ll regret underestimating your son.”
For thirty years, the past owned us. Grief owned me. Control owned him.
Not anymore.
As we walked away, hand in hand, I looked at the man beside me — not the ghost I buried, not the stranger next door.
Gabriel.
This time, no one would rewrite our story.
