Chapter 9 - The Day The Past Knocked On Our Door
We’d been in Maine for two years when the past came knocking. I was at the bookstore one afternoon, restocking the children’s section, when a woman walked in, her coat pulled tight against the cold wind. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her—until she took off her hat, and I saw the scar above her left eyebrow. It was Sarah.
I froze, my hand resting on a copy of Where the Wild Things Are. “Sarah? What are you doing here?”
She smiled, a little nervous. “I moved here a few months ago. I got a job at the hospital as a nurse. I saw your name on the bookstore website, and I wanted to say hi. And to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I said, confused. “I should be thanking you. If you hadn’t testified, Mark might have gotten away with it.”
She shook her head. “You gave me my voice back,” she said. “For years, I thought no one would ever believe me about what he did. But when I testified, when the jury found him guilty… it was like a weight lifted off me. I finally felt like I could move on. And then I saw your nonprofit, the work you’re doing… you’re helping so many people. I wanted to help, if you’ll let me.”
We sat down at the café next to the bookstore, and we talked for hours. Sarah told me she’d started volunteering at a domestic violence shelter in Portland, that she was going back to school to become a nurse practitioner specializing in trauma care. She told me she was dating a woman named Mia, who was a teacher, that they were thinking about buying a house together.
It was amazing to see how far she’d come, how much she’d healed, just like we had. We became friends, meeting for coffee every week, Sarah volunteering with Listen To Kids, helping me organize fundraisers and support groups.
But the past wasn’t done with us yet. A few months later, I got a letter from the state parole board. Mark was up for early parole, after serving only five years of his sentence. His lawyer had argued that he was a “model prisoner,” that he’d completed a rehabilitation program, that he was “remorseful for his actions.”
I felt sick when I read the letter. Five years. That was all he’d get for hurting my daughter, for destroying our family. And if he got parole, he’d be free. He could come find us. He could hurt Sophie again.
I called Karen, who was still my lawyer, and she told me we could testify at the parole hearing, to argue against his release. “We need to show them he’s still a danger,” she said. “We need to show them he hasn’t changed.”
Sophie was eight now, old enough to understand what was happening. I sat her down and told her about the parole hearing, and she frowned, her little face serious. “He can’t get out, Mommy. He’ll hurt someone else.”
“I know, baby,” I said. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure he stays in prison.”
The parole hearing was held at the prison where Mark was being held. We flew back to the state where the trial had been, Lisa and Sarah and Emma coming with us for support. Mark was brought into the room in handcuffs, older now, his hair graying, his face lined. He looked at me, and for a second, I saw the old charm flicker across his face, before it was gone.
His lawyer spoke first, saying Mark had “seen the error of his ways,” that he’d “worked hard to rehabilitate himself,” that he wanted to “make amends” to his family. Then Mark spoke, his voice soft, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry for what I did,” he said. “I was sick, I was selfish, and I hurt my daughter and my wife. I’ve spent every day in here regretting it. I just want a chance to be a better man, to make things right.”
Then it was my turn. I stood up, looking right at him, my voice steady.
“You say you’re sorry,” I said. “But you’re not sorry for what you did. You’re sorry you got caught. You spent years manipulating everyone around you, lying to us, hurting my daughter. You told her she was a bad girl if she told the truth. You tried to destroy me to save yourself. And now you want us to believe you’ve changed? I don’t believe it. People like you don’t change. You just get better at hiding who you are.”
I paused, taking a breath. “My daughter is 8 years old now. She’s happy, she’s brave, she’s thriving. But she still has nightmares sometimes. She still hates the sound of timers. She still has to work hard every day to feel safe. You did that to her. And if you get out, you’ll do it to someone else. You don’t deserve a second chance. You deserve to stay in prison, where you can’t hurt anyone else.”
Sarah testified next, saying Mark had never shown remorse when they were together, that he’d always blamed others for his actions. Dr. Hale sent a letter, saying Sophie was still healing, that Mark’s release would cause her significant emotional harm. Even Maria, the former nanny, sent a statement, saying she believed Mark was still a danger.
The parole board retired to deliberate, and we waited in the hallway, our hands clasped. An hour later, they came back with their decision: parole denied. Mark would have to serve at least three more years before he could apply again.
May you like
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and Lisa hugged me tight. We’d won again. Mark was staying where he belonged.
On the flight home, I looked out the window at the clouds, thinking about how far we’d come. From the fear of that first night I called the police, to the trial, to the move to Maine, to this moment—we’d fought, and we’d won, again and again. We weren’t victims anymore. We were survivors.
