Page 100 of This Life of Mine

I lean back, giving myself space to control what’s on my face. But I don’t soften my voice when I speak.

“I’m sorry you went through that.” I continue. “It was never your job to comfort him for the damage he caused.”

My anger sharpens, but it doesn’t spill. It focuses.

“What he did to you wasn’t love,” I say. “It was ownership. Oppression. And you broke out of it.”

I maintain eye contact with her, letting her see the truth in my eyes.

“And anyone who thinks they’re entitled to your body, your choices, or your future…” I pause, deliberately. “…is making a catastrophic mistake.”

I don’t say Cole’s name. I don’t have to.

Because the fury is there. In my posture, in the restraint, in the promise I don’t voice aloud.

And as Lina sits across from me, still upright after everything she’s sustained, I am sure of one thing: No one ever gets to hurt her like that again. Because she’s strong enough to take care of it herself without my help.

“I’m sorry,” Lina says softly after a moment. “I didn’t mean to make dinner so…heavy.”

I observe her, and nod in disbelief.

“Don’t apologize,” I tell her. “Not for that. Ever.” My voice stays calm, but I mean every word. “I appreciate you trusting me with what you shared.”

She exhales and I hold her gaze, letting her know I’m here.

Once the moment crests, I stand and start gathering plates before the moment can tip back into something too fragile. Routine helps. Motion helps. I stack dishes, scrape plates, carry them to the sink.

“I can do that later,” she says, already moving to stand.

I glance over my shoulder and give a small nod. “I’ve got it.”

She hesitates but relents, perching on the counter instead. Legs swinging slightly, hands braced behind her. Relaxed, indicating she’s not used to being told to rest.

“Tell me something lighter,” I say, turning on the water. “How did you and Val come up with the bakery-bookstore idea?”

Her face brightens.

“Oh,” she says, smiling. “That’s actually a good story.”

I listen as I wash dishes, the sound of running water grounding me while her voice fills the space. She talks about late-night conversations, shared exhaustion, half-joking ideas that slowly turned serious. About loving books and food and community and wanting a place that seemed warm and cozy.

“We wanted a place that didn’t rush you out the door. Books, warm pastries, coffee…it made sense.”

I glance over at her as I dry a plate.

“It’s definitely my favorite place if you can’t tell by now,” I say.

She smiles. “I’m glad. It’s mine too.”

I return to the sink, carefully placing the last dish in the rack.

Mission accomplished.

After drying my hands on a towel, I lean against the counter across from her, letting the evening find its own rhythm. The weight of everything hasn’t disappeared, but it no longer feels impossible to carry.

This is better.

Stories. Shared space. A woman sitting on her counter, talking about building something meaningful with her best friend.