Chapter 10 - Watch What Happens
By June of the following year, exactly three hundred and sixty-five days had passed since the afternoon I stood on my parents' porch with one black trash bag.
The West End Avenue development was officially completed. The ribbon-cutting ceremony was attended by the Mayor, local media, and hundreds of business leaders. The project was hailed as a triumphant success, establishing Vance & Harlow Development as one of the premier firms in the region.
After the press conference ended, I drove my new SUV—bought and paid for with my own earned income—up into the quiet hills overlooking the city.
Beside me in the passenger seat was a small, beautifully bound leather album.
I pulled up to a high scenic overlook that overlooked the entire valley. Below lay the city of Nashville, glittering under the bright afternoon sun. In the far distance, barely visible through the trees, was the quiet suburb of Northwood, where my parents' house stood behind its white picket fence.
I opened the leather album.
Inside were photographs of the last year:
Wrenna winning her school’s regional science fair, holding a gold trophy.
Jovie riding a pony at Blackwood Estate, laughing wildly.
Nolan taking his first swimming lessons in our new backyard pool.
A photograph of my new house—a mid-century modern home I had designed myself, built on two acres of sunlit hill, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that let in every ray of light.
And on the final page, a photo of me standing on the roof of the West End building, wearing a hard hat, smiling with total, unshakeable peace.
I closed the album.
I picked up my phone and opened my social media profile—a public business page followed by thousands of local residents, business leaders, and townspeople.
I uploaded a single photo.
It wasn't a picture of money. It wasn't a picture of revenge.
It was a photograph of my three healthy, happy children running through the green grass of our new home, toward a massive, open double door of warm wood and glass that led into a house filled with light.
Beneath the photograph, I typed four simple words—the same three words I had whispered into the hot June air a year ago, with one addition:
You watched. Now look.
I posted the photo, placed the phone in my purse, and turned off the engine.
May you like
Down in the valley, behind locked doors and faded flower welcome mats, those who had chosen cruelty were left to live with the quiet, empty choices they had made.
And up on the hill, surrounded by the family I had built, my children and I walked through our open door, and stepped into the rest of our lives.
