I sat beside her until she woke.
“I changed everything,” I whispered.
She looked at me.
“The locks?”
“The locks. The passwords. The emergency contacts. Everything.”
She gave me a tired smile.
“And your mother?”
I took her hand.
“She doesn’t have access to us anymore.”
Three weeks later, our daughter was born.
A healthy baby girl.
We named her Lily.
My mother found out from a relative.
She sent one message.
I am still her grandmother.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I deleted it.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because I finally understood the difference between forgiveness and access.
Forgiveness, if it ever came, would be mine to decide.
Access to my wife and daughter was not.
Months later, there was a family gathering without us.
