Page 214 of This Life of Mine

She remembers it wrong. She always did.

The guards’ footsteps echo down the tier. I lock the phone and slide it back into hiding.

Tomorrow, I’ll forget I ever saw her. That’s easier.

Because if I don’t—I might have to ask myself why she learned how to protect herself at all.

I stare at the ceiling long after lights-out, counting days instead of hours.

My next parole hearing is only a few months away now.

And when I get out—and I will—I’m not keeping quiet.

I’m going to confront them. All of them. And tell them how wrong they were. How fucked up it was to abandon me. To believe her version of our past over mine.

They don’t get to erase me and pretend they’re the good ones. They don’t get to rewrite history and leave me buried behind it.

I remember who turned their backs. Time hasn’t dulled a single face.

Epilogue Two

Lina

“I’m happy,” I tell her.

She sits across from me in her chair, legs crossed neatly at the ankle. She’s older—well into her sixties—but there’s nothing fragile about her.

Her hair is a luxurious gray, thick and softly waved, framing a face that has learned how to listen without flinching.

She wears a burgundy dress that drapes effortlessly, the color rich and grounding, and black-framed glasses rest low on her nose.

She’s trained on listening as she writes.

Her pen moves across her notepad as I speak deliberately, unhurried. The kind of attention that doesn’t rush you toward conclusions or demand resolution before you’re ready.

When she does glance up, it’s only for a moment. Just long enough to let me know she’s here. Then her eyes return to the page.

The word happy still feels strange in my mouth. Like something new I’m allowed to hold, but haven’t learned how to trust yet.

I lean back against the couch in her office, legs tucked beneath me, hands wrapped around a mug I’ve already forgotten to drink from.

“I really am,” I add. “My life is going really well. It’s full. And I feel safe.”

She nods once, waiting.

“But sometimes,” I continue, my gaze drifting to the rug instead of her face, “my past still finds me when I’m asleep.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

“Last night, I dreamed about Peter,” I say. “My half-brother. The one I told you about.”

“Yes,” she says gently. “I remember. Go on, Lina.”

The name settles heavy between us.

“We were back in the yellow house,” I say. “The one with the tiny kitchen. The one where all four of us kids shared a bedroom.”

I see it perfectly.