Chapter 9
Tori grew fast.
Too fast.
Before I knew it, she was rolling over.
Then sitting up.
Then crawling.
Then walking.
Every milestone was a celebration.
Her first word was “Mama.”
Her second was “Lala” (Liam).
Her third was “Gigi.”
That was me.
I’d decided “Grandma” made me sound too old.
So I was Gigi.
And I loved it.
Tori was the light of all our lives.
Smart.
Funny.
Stubborn as a mule (she got that from both of us).
Kind.
She had Emily’s smile.
And my eyes.
And Liam’s gentle heart.
Every day with her was an adventure.
I took her to the park.
To the zoo.
To the foundation.
She’d sit in my lap during support group meetings.
Play with her toys.
And all the moms would smile.
Because she was proof.
Proof that you could survive the worst things life could throw at you.
Proof that happiness was still possible.
Proof that love always won.
When Tori was two, we got news we’d been waiting for.
Margaret Prescott had died in prison.
Heart attack.
Alone.
No one came to her funeral.
Not even her own sons.
Brandon was still in prison.
Would be for another twelve years.
He’d tried to appeal his sentence three times.
Every time, the judge had thrown it out.
He spent his days alone in his cell.
No friends.
No visitors.
No money.
No power.
Just the consequences of everything he’d done.
Ethan had gotten paroled after seven years.
For good behavior.
He’d gotten out a year earlier.
He’d written Emily a letter.
Apologizing again.
Saying he’d gotten his GED in prison.
Became a counselor.
Worked with other domestic violence perpetrators.
Trying to make amends.
Trying to change.
Emily hadn’t written back.
She didn’t owe him anything.
But she’d told me she was glad he was trying to be better.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” she’d said.
“Just not in my life.”
And that was okay.
We’d closed that chapter.
We didn’t need to go back.
That same year, I retired from the Army.
Thirty-five years of service.
I’d done everything I’d set out to do.
Changed the system.
Helped thousands of families.
Left the military better than I’d found it.
My retirement ceremony was big.
The Chief of Staff of the Army came.
Gave me the Distinguished Service Medal.
The highest award you can get in peacetime.
But the best part of the ceremony?
Tori.
She came up on stage with me.
In her tiny little Army dress uniform I’d had made just for her.
She stood beside me.
Saluted the General.
Perfectly.
The whole room laughed.
And cheered.
And took a million photos.
It was perfect.
Retirement didn’t mean I slowed down.
Far from it.
I spent more time at the foundation.
More time at Emily and Liam’s counseling center.
More time with Tori.
We traveled.
All over the country.
Speaking at conferences.
Telling our story.
Helping other states set up their own programs.
Our movement was spreading.
Everywhere we went, survivors came up to us.
Told us our story had given them the courage to leave.
To fight.
To start over.
It was humbling.
And amazing.
And exactly what we were meant to do.
That fall, we celebrated five years since the trial.
Since justice had been served.
Since we’d gotten our lives back.
We had a big party at the house.
All our family and friends.
Everyone who’d been with us from the start.
Everyone who’d joined us along the way.
We ate.
We drank.
We laughed.
We told stories.
Tori ran around the yard.
Chased the dog.
Laughed so loud you could hear her across the lake.
Later that night, after everyone had left, the four of us—me, Emily, Liam, and Tori—sat on the porch.
Watched the sunset.
Tori was asleep in my lap.
Her head on my shoulder.
Breathing soft and even.
Emily leaned against Liam.
His arm around her.
Everything was quiet.
Everything was perfect.
Emily looked over at me.
Smiled.
“Can you believe it’s been five years, Mom? Feels like yesterday. And also like a lifetime ago.”
I nodded.
Stroked Tori’s hair.
“I know. So much has changed. We’ve changed.”
Liam spoke up.
Quiet.
Sincere.
“I just want you both to know… I’m so proud of you. Both of you. What you did. What you’ve built. You’ve helped so many people. You’ve changed the world. And I’m just… I’m lucky to be part of this family.”
Emily squeezed his hand.
“We’re lucky to have you, Liam. You’ve given us so much. Stability. Love. Safety. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. And Tori is so lucky to have you as her dad.”
He smiled.
Kissed the top of her head.
We sat there for a long time.
Watching the stars come out.
I thought about how far we’d come.
From that terrible night in the hospital.
Scared.
Alone.
Facing impossible odds.
To this.
A family.
A legacy.
A whole world of people we’d helped.
I thought about all the people who’d told us we couldn’t win.
Who’d said we were crazy to take on the Prescotts.
Who’d said we’d be destroyed.
And here we were.
Happy.
Whole.
Successful.
Loved.
It just went to show.
You should never bet against a mother fighting for her child.
Never.
Emily squeezed my hand.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Would you change anything? If you could go back? Do it all different?”
I thought about it.
For a long time.
I thought about the pain.
The fear.
The suspension.
The lies.
All the hard days.
And then I looked at Tori.
Sleeping in my arms.
At Emily.
Happy and loved.
At Liam.
Good and kind.
At all the people we’d helped.
All the lives we’d saved.
And I smiled.
“No,” I said.
“I wouldn’t change a single thing. Because all of it led us here. To this. To all of this. And I wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.”
Emily smiled back.
Tears in her eyes.
“Me neither, Mom. Me neither.”
We sat there a little longer.
Quiet.
Content.
At peace.
The future stretched out in front of us.
Bright.
Beautiful.
Full of promise.
And whatever came next?
We’d face it together.
As a family.
Stronger than ever.
Because we’d already survived the worst.
And we knew.
May you like
As long as we had each other?
We could survive anything.
