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Rachel didn’t flinch.
She laughed, wiped Emma’s chin, and said, “Well, now my sweater is having dinner too.”
Emma howled with laughter.
I watched from the sink.
And I realized something that made me uncomfortable.
Rachel was good with her.
Not perfect.
Not magically forgiven.
But gentle.
Patient.
Present.
That truth did not undo what she had done.
It complicated it.
People prefer stories with clean roles.
Hero.
Villain.
Victim.
Rescuer.
But real life is messier.
Jackson had been the hero.
Rachel had caused deep harm.
I had been a rescuer.
I had also been a woman who almost judged a desperate boy into disaster.
None of us were only one thing.
By the fifth week of training, Emma had adjusted.
Jackson called every night.
Sometimes Emma told him every detail of her day.