She Was Born Again, So She Stopped Begging For Their Love Chapter 12

She Was Born Again, So She Stopped Begging For Their Love Chapter 12

The following, spring, after settling all her affairs, Grace returned to Boston

She walked into her south-facing apartment. The sunlight fell perfectly on her grandmother” z photo, lighting up the old woman’s warın smile.

She sat on the couch, turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels.

A family drama. A family eating dinner together, laughing and chatting. Lively.

She watched for two seconds. Changed the channel.

A variety show. Celebrities talking about their parents, laughing until they doubled over.

Next.

News. A report about a Mother’s Day event. Children washing their mothers’ feet.

Next.

An ad. A daughter calling her mother, saying, “Mom, I miss you.”

Grace turned off the TV.

The room went quiet. Only the sunlight remained, warm on her face.

She leaned back on the couch, closed her eyes, and remembered the line she had written in her

notebook when she was thirteen.

From today on, Grace Bennett lives only for herself.

She had done it.

In twenty-two years, she had transformed herself from a little girl desperate for love into an adult who needed no one.

She had a degree. A job. A house, Savings. Every conventional measure of success.

The one thing she didn’t have was someone who would knock on her door late at night, holding a

cup of warm milk, and say, “Grace, go to bed.”

Not Chloe.

Chloe had never done anything wrong. But she had also never truly loved Grace with her whole

she just felt guilty. Just wanted to make amends, fust wanted pear e of mind

The only person who had ever loved Grace unconditionally was her grandfather.

And her grandmother was gone.

She opened her eyes, picked up her phone, and scrolled through her contacts.

Only about twenty people. Most work-related.

She scrolled to the bottom. Saw a name. Michael.

She opened the chat. The last message was from three years ago.

He had sent a photo of snow in Boston. The caption: “It’s snowing. Is it cold at your place?”

She hadn’t replied.

She typed a few words. Deleted them. Typed again. Deleted again. Several times.

Finally, she sent nothing. Closed the chat. Put the phone aside.

The sunlight was beautiful. Spring in Boston was full of flowers. Even the air was sweet.

She stood by the window, watching a mother and her child fly a kite in the garden below.

The child ran fast. The kite flew high. The mother ran after him, laughing, calling, “Slow down,

slow down.”

As she watched, the corners of her mouth curved up without her realizing.

Then she picked up her phone and sent a message to Linda.

The first time in her life she had initiated contact. The last time.

“Mom, I forgive you “

She put the phone down on the table. Walked into the kitchen, Cooked herself a bowl of noodles.

Handmade noodles. Bone broth. A fried egg on top, the edges of the yolk slightly crispy. Just the way

she liked it.

She sat at the table, facing her grandmother’s photo, and ate slowly.

Ve she seller baseline “ber jline boobook.

Stepeketjuk beply Troon Lauda

alkowded “Okay ”

Hence looked at that word and smiled.

Nor a happy smile. Not a sad smile. The serene smile of someone who had finally finished wverything.

Like running a marathon. No one waiting at the finish line. But she finished anyway.

She didn’t need anyone waiting for her at the finish line. She owned her own finish line.

She put down her phone. Washed the dishes. Tidied the kitchen. Sat down at her desk and opened the notebook that had been with her for twenty-two years.

The notebook was old. The cover worn and faded. The corners curled. The pages dense with writing.

She turned to the last page and looked at the words she had written when she was thirteen. The childish, almost obsessive strokes. Every line and every dot saying the same thing: I won’t get hurt again.

She picked up her pen and wrote one final sentence in the blank space at the bottom.

I won, but I’m so tired.

She put down the pen. Leaned back in her chair. Closed her eyes.

The sunlight outside gradually faded. Gold to orange-red. Orange-red to gray-blue.

The spring evening breeze blew in, rustling the curtains, rustling the notebook on the desk, turning the pages one by one with a soft whisper, as if someone were saying something.

Grace didn’t hear it.

She fell asleep.

This time, she didn’t dream of the white hospital room.

She dreamed of her grandmother.

Tyrannidusa stood at the door of the old house, wearing that faded floral blouse, holding a plate of

freshly grilled briskets, smiling and waving.

TM”Sweetie, let’s go home.”

Grace smiled in

sleep. She ran and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms.

Grandma’s arms were warm. They smelled of chocolate cake. Of sunshine. Of the only safe place in

the world.

She was finally home.

Back to the world before she turned thirteen. Back to the world before anyone told her she wasn’t worth loving. Back to the age when she still believed tomorrow would be better.

She was never leaving again.