Life After the Boundary
Life didn’t turn into a movie.
It turned into something better: steady.
We rebuilt with small, repeatable things:
- Soup and cornbread
- Laundry that smelled like baby soap
- Budgets marked with three highlighters
- Apologies without speeches around them
Some days were hard.
Some days were simple.
When old hurts rose up, we made tea and waited for them to pass.
We kept boundaries.
We kept the door open when it was safe.
At Christmas, the baby fell asleep on my chest at my kitchen table.
Candace hummed a carol she couldn’t quite remember.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like grief would be embarrassed to interrupt.
The Lesson I Won’t Apologize For
You might wonder if I regret calling the bank.
I don’t.
Mercy without a line becomes harm.
That call wasn’t revenge.
It was a boundary.
It stopped me from paying for a life I wasn’t allowed to be part of.
And it forced the truth into the open — where it could finally do its work.
I once drove 600 miles for a smile that never came.
Instead I found my way back to myself.
And now, when I think of that porch, I don’t feel small anymore.
I feel steady.
