Chapter 6 - The Paper Stars
Four months later. September.
The late afternoon sun washed over the backyard in brilliant shades of amber, rose, and warm gold.
The concrete patio—once stained with blue frosting—was completely clean, covered by a wide wooden deck that my brother and I had spent two weekends building. On the deck sat a long oak table surrounded by comfortable patio chairs, covered in bowls of fresh summer salad, grilled chicken, and fresh lemonade.
Around the table sat the people who truly belonged there: Renee, looking radiant and healthy in her late pregnancy; my son and his boyfriend; Eleanor Vance, who had become a close family friend; and several neighbors who had rallied around Renee over the summer.
Colin’s corporate fraud trial was scheduled for November. He had been summarily fired from Mid-Valley Bank, his private accounts were frozen, and Eleanor had secured a complete, non-negotiable termination of his parental rights to the unborn baby in exchange for waiving personal civil fraud damages.
Renee was going to raise her children alone—and she had never looked stronger, happier, or more at peace.
From inside the house, the sound of laughing children echoed through the open sliding screen door.
Harper stepped out onto the deck, wearing a bright yellow summer dress. In her hands, she was carefully carrying a large, round glass bowl filled with colorful paper stars—hundreds of them, glowing in the sunlight.
Beside her walked her best friend from school, giggling as they set the bowl in the very center of the long table.
"Grandma! Look!" Harper called out, running over to where I sat at the end of the table. She jumped into my lap, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck.
"What do we have here, sweetheart?" I asked, kissing her soft cheek.
"Mom and I finished making all three hundred stars for the new nursery," Harper announced proudly, pointing to the bowl. "Yellow ones, green ones, blue ones, and purple ones. So no matter what the baby likes, it’s already in their room."
Renee walked over, setting a hand on my shoulder, looking down at her daughter with a love so deep it seemed to light up the entire yard.
"And where is the baby's room, Harper?" Renee asked softly, tapping her daughter's nose.
Harper grinned—a wide, bright, gap-toothed smile that reached all the way to her sparkling brown eyes.
"Right next to mine," Harper said proudly. "The second-biggest room in the house."
Everyone around the table laughed, raising their glasses in a warm, unprompted toast.
I looked down at my granddaughter, at her glowing, unbroken face, and then up at my daughter, whose eyes were filled with absolute, unshakeable peace.
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The cake was gone. The lies were broken. The monster had been driven away.
And as the sun began to set over the quiet suburban neighborhood, casting a warm, golden light across the wooden deck, I held my family close, knowing that no one was ever going to pack a single box in this house again.
