In February, Patricia finally wrote me a letter. It was awkward and stiff, and she clearly struggled to find the right words, but the apology was there. We began rebuilding our relationship slowly, on terms I set. She could see my children whenever she treated them with the same respect she expected for herself. Jenna, meanwhile, learned to handle her own scheduling instead of assuming I would always rescue her.

At the next holiday, I set the table myself. Every chair matched, and this time Lila and Theo were served first. Nobody questioned it. Nobody made them feel as though they had to earn their place. Looking around that table, I realized strength had never meant carrying everything for everyone. It meant knowing what mattered enough to protect—and finally deciding what I would no longer carry.