She did not smile.
She simply closed her eyes.
For years, Greg had decided when doors opened.
Now another door had closed permanently between them.
That was enough.
But the verdict did not restore nine years.
It could not.
Justice could punish what happened.
It could not give Joan back the birthdays she missed.
The holidays.
Family dinners.
Ordinary mornings.
The years did not suddenly return because a judge pronounced a sentence.
The hardest work began afterward.
Joan had to relearn freedom.
That sounds strange until freedom itself has become frightening.
For nearly a decade, every decision had carried consequences controlled by somebody else.
Now people asked her simple questions.
“What would you like for dinner?”
“Where do you want to go today?”
“Would you like the window open?”
Sometimes Joan could not answer.
Choice felt overwhelming.
Enclosed spaces frightened her.
Sudden footsteps behind her could trigger panic.
