At My Grandmother’s Funeral,Her Lawyer Pulled Me AsideWhat I Saw at the Dark Door Changed Everything

Part 8

The trouble with surviving something is that people assume surviving means you’re fine.

December came with cold rain and short days. The shelter was full. The holidays made everything worse for the women who lived with us. Abusers got sentimental. Families got demanding. Courts closed for weeks. The world slowed down at the exact time our residents needed speed.

Ethan started showing up more often, sometimes early, sometimes late, always with that restless energy like he didn’t know what to do with his own skin.

He’d fix a hinge, replace a lightbulb, repaint a chipped baseboard. He’d volunteer for shifts that weren’t his. He’d stand in the kitchen after everyone went to bed, staring at nothing.

One night, I found him on the back porch with a hoodie pulled over his head, rain misting into the porch light.

“You’re going to freeze,” I said, stepping outside.

He shrugged without looking at me. “Feels right.”

I leaned on the railing beside him. The yard was dark, slick with rain.

After a long silence, he said, “I keep thinking about the tea.”

My chest tightened. “Yeah.”

“I drank it too,” he whispered. “All the time. She made it for us.”

I swallowed hard. “I know.”

“What if it hurt me and I didn’t even notice?” His voice cracked on the last word.

I turned to him. Under the hood, his face looked younger than he wanted it to. “Ethan,” I said softly, “you’re here. You’re okay.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed on the yard. “That’s not what I mean.”

I waited.

He swallowed. “What if I helped them without knowing? What if I gave her the tea sometimes? What if I handed her the cup that—”

“Stop,” I said firmly, but not harsh. “You were a kid. You didn’t know.”

He laughed bitterly. “I wasn’t a kid. I was seventeen. I was old enough to notice she was scared.”

“You were old enough to be manipulated,” I replied. “So was I.”

He finally looked at me, eyes wet. “You noticed.”

“Not soon enough,” I said quietly. “And I had help. Henry, Marcus. Grandma’s notes. I didn’t magically know. I had evidence.”

Ethan’s shoulders sagged. He looked exhausted in a way that made me afraid.

“Have you been sleeping?” I asked.

He shrugged again.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked, because the question needed to exist even if the answer hurt.

His jaw clenched. “Sometimes.”

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