But every now and then, the past whispered. Reporters still sent letters, and investors begged Mom to tell her story for documentaries. She always refused. «I don’t need to relive it,» she said softly. «I just need to live.»
One evening, as the sun dipped low over the ocean, I sat on the porch with her and a cup of tea. The air smelled of salt and wet earth. I looked at her, still half in disbelief. «Mom, I never asked… who sent that text that night? The one that brought me to you?»
She looked up, the sunset reflecting in her eyes. «I didn’t,» she said quietly.
I frowned. «What do you mean? It came from your number.»
«My phone was off,» she explained. «Martha took it. I didn’t have it that night.»
We sat in silence as the waves hissed against the rocks. A chill slid down my spine, but it wasn’t from fear—it was from awe. Maybe fate had dialed that message itself, unwilling to let a lie win.
Mom reached over and took my hand. «Whatever it was,» she said, «it saved us.»
I nodded, smiling through the lump in my throat. «No, Mom. You saved us.»
In the fading light, I saw her the way I always wanted to remember her: not a victim, not a ghost, but a woman reborn. When I drove home later, the sky glowed deep orange, the same color as the daisies she loved. I rolled down the window and let the sea wind fill the car.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t haunted. The truth had set us free. And though we’d lost everything once—money, reputation, even each other—we’d found something rarer: peace.
As the road curved away from the coast, I whispered into the wind, «Good night, Mom.»
And for the first time since that funeral, I swore I heard her voice again, soft and certain. Alive.
«Good night, sweetheart.»
The storm had passed, and we were finally home.
