Her mom, a family court lawyer, was helping me file for emancipation.
The trust fund my mom left would be enough to support me through college and beyond.
That evening, as Olivia and I sat in her backyard under a string of soft patio lights, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number.
Dad calling from jail.
Olivia nudged me.
“Answer it,” she said. “You’re safe now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
With shaking hands, I accepted the call.
“Anna,” Dad’s voice cracked. “Princess, I’m so sorry. I should have listened. Should have protected you.”
“Like you protected Mom?” I asked coldly.
His sharp intake of breath told me everything.
“What are you talking about?”
“The police are reopening Mom’s case,” I said. “Dad, did you know Deanna back then?”
“Did you know what she did?”
“No,” he protested. “I met her at a grief support group six months before we married.”
“She helped me through losing your mother.”
“She helped herself to Mom’s life,” I corrected. “And then she tried to help herself to mine.”
The silence between us felt like a canyon.
“I failed you,” he finally whispered. “I failed both of you.”
“Guess you did,” I said, voice steady now.
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