The judge sentenced her to the agreed upon 5 years. As she was led away, Vanessa looked back at me one more time. I held her gaze, my face expressionless, until she turned away.
My parents tried one final time to reach me. They came to Austin, showed up at the clinic where I worked. Security called me down to the lobby.
They looked terrible. My father had lost weight, his face gray and haggarded. My mother’s hands shook. They had aged a decade in 6 months.
“We’re leaving Phoenix,” my father said. “We can’t afford to stay. We’ve sold the condo at a loss. We’re moving to a smaller place in Oklahoma near your aunt. We wanted to see you before we left.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say, Dad?”
“I want you to tell us we can fix this. That we’re still a family. That there is a way forward.”
I looked at my parents. These people who had given me life but never really saw me. These people who had taught me that love was something you earned by being convenient, by not making trouble. By accepting whatever scraps of affection they were willing to provide.
“There’s no family here,” I said. “You killed it when you chose a party over a funeral. When you told me my grief was less important than Vanessa’s celebration. When you made me bury my daughter alone.”
“We’ve lost everything,” my mother whispered. “Our home, our savings, our daughter is in prison. Our reputation is destroyed. Haven’t we been punished enough?”
“I lost my daughter,” I said. “My three-year-old daughter, who loved strawberries and singing, who fought cancer with more bravery than you’ve shown in your entire lives. Who died asking if we could go to the park when she felt better. I lost everything that mattered. And you couldn’t even show up.”
“We’re sorry,” my father said. “We are so so sorry. We made a terrible mistake. But this vendetta has to end. This cruelty has to stop.”
“It has stopped,” I said. “I’m done. Vanessa’s in prison. You’re bankrupt. My revenge is complete. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you. That doesn’t mean we’re family again. It just means I’m finished destroying you because there’s nothing left to destroy.”
My mother reached for my hand. I stepped back.
“Don’t contact me again. Don’t come here again. Don’t send messages or letters or intermediaries. We’re done permanently.”
“Meera, please.”
“My name isn’t Mera to you anymore. I’m a stranger. Treat me like one.”
I walked away. Security escorted my parents out. I never saw them again.
6 months after Vanessa was imprisoned, I received a letter from her. It had been opened and screened by prison authorities before being forwarded to me. I almost threw it away, but curiosity made me read it.
The handwriting was messy, not like Vanessa’s usually perfect script.
Meera, I don’t expect you to forgive me. I probably don’t deserve forgiveness. But I need you to understand something. I was wrong about the party. I should have canled it. I should have been at Grace’s funeral. I was selfish and horrible. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about that. But what you did went beyond justice. You didn’t just expose my crimes. You orchestrated my complete destruction. You ruined mom and dad financially. You turned the entire world against us. You weaponized my mistakes to serve your need for revenge. I’m in prison because I deserve to be. But you put me here not because you cared about my victims, but because you wanted me to suffer. And I am suffering every day. I’ve lost my career, my house, my freedom, my family. I’ve lost everything. I hope it was worth it. I hope my pain fills the whole grace left in your heart. But I don’t think it will. I think you’ll always be empty, no matter how many people you destroy. I loved Grace, too. I know I didn’t show it well. I know I was a terrible aunt, but I did love her. And I think she’d be sad to see what you’ve become, Vanessa.
I read the letter twice. Then I burned it in my kitchen sink and washed the ashes down the drain.
A year after Grace died, I stood at her grave on a Sunday morning. The grass had filled in completely now. Flowers grew around the headstone planted by the groundskeepers. The cemetery was quiet except for birds singing in the trees.
I did what I set out to do. I told her Vanessa’s in prison. Mom and dad lost everything. Everyone knows what they did to us. Everyone knows they chose a party over your funeral.
The wind rustled through the leaves. Somewhere nearby, someone was placing flowers on another grave.
Vanessa said you’d be sad about what I became. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you would be disappointed in me. But I needed them to understand. I needed them to hurt the way I hurt.
I sat down on the grass, leaning against the headstone.
The thing is, sweetheart, it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. I thought I’d feel satisfied, vindicated. I thought watching them suffer would somehow balance the scales, but it just feels empty. Different empty than before, but still empty.
A woman walked past with a small child. A little girl about Grace’s age. The child was laughing, running ahead of her mother, full of life and energy. I watched them until they disappeared behind a mausoleum, and the ache in my chest threatened to split me open.
“I miss you so much,” I whispered. “Every single day, every single moment, nothing makes it better. Not revenge, not justice, not anything. You’re just gone, and I’m still here. And I don’t know how to live in a world without you.”
I stayed until the sun was high overhead, talking to a headstone, pretending my daughter could hear me.
When I finally left the cemetery, I drove to the support group meeting I had been attending for the past 6 months. It met in a church basement every Sunday afternoon, a gathering of parents who had lost children.
I had resisted going for a long time, convinced that nothing could help, that I was beyond comfort. But Julia had insisted. She had driven me to the first meeting, sat with me through it, held my hand when I cried.
The group facilitator was a woman named Patricia, who had lost her son to leukemia 15 years earlier. She had kind eyes and a gentle manner and she never pushed anyone to share before they were ready.
I had not spoken during meetings for the first two months. I just sat and listened to other parents talk about their grief, their guilt, their desperate attempts to find meaning and loss that had no meaning.
Eventually, I started talking. I told them about Grace, about the cancer, about her bravery, about how she died. I did not tell them about the revenge. That was separate, private, something I carried alone.
Today, Patricia asked how everyone was managing with the approaching holidays. Thanksgiving was three weeks away. Christmas would follow soon after. The first holiday season without grace had been unbearable. The second was approaching fast, and I felt unprepared.
“I’m dreading it,” admitted Robert, a father who had lost his teenage daughter in a car accident. “Last year, I couldn’t even look at a Christmas tree without breaking down. This year, I don’t know if I can do it at all.”
“I’m putting up decorations,” said Margaret, whose infant son had died of sudden infant death syndrome. “It feels wrong, like I’m betraying him by celebrating, but I have other children who need normaly, who need to see that life continues.”
The conversation continued around the circle. When it reached me, I hesitated.
