Chapter 7 #2
I'm proud of you. I never thought I'd get to say that.
For years, I've been sitting in this cell, wondering if you were alive or dead, praying to a God I'm not sure I believe in that you'd find your way out of the darkness I helped put you in.
And now you're writing to me. You're in rehab. You're pregnant.
You're breaking the cycle.
I can't undo what I did. I can't bring your mother back.
I can't give you the childhood you deserved, or take away the years of pain I caused.
But I can tell you this: addiction is a monster, but it's not invincible.
I've been clean for twelve years. Twelve years of waking up every morning and choosing not to use.
Twelve years of living with what I've done.
If I can do it, you can do it. You're stronger than me, Vanna. You always were.
Write to me again. Or don't. Whatever you need. I'll be here either way.
I love you. I know I don't have the right to say that anymore, but it's true. I never stopped.
Dad
The tears come before I can stop them. I sit on my bed, clutching the letter to my chest, and I cry.
For the mother I lost.
For the father I thought I'd never speak to again.
For the girl I used to be, before the drugs stole everything.
And somewhere in the middle of all that grief, I find something else.
Hope.
Group therapy on Thursday is harder than usual.
We're sitting in a circle—eight of us, plus Patricia—talking about family.
About the people we've hurt and the relationships we've broken.
About whether it's possible to rebuild what addiction destroyed.
"I got a letter from my father this week," I hear myself say.
The room goes quiet.
They all know my story by now.
They know about my mother dying in a trap house, about my father going to prison, about my accident, about the years I spent following in their footsteps.
"What did it say?" Patricia asks.
"He said he's proud of me." My voice cracks. "He said I'm breaking the cycle."
"How does that make you feel?"
I think about it.
Really think about it.
"Scared," I admit. "Because what if I'm not? What if I get out of here and I relapse and I prove him wrong?"
"That fear is normal," Patricia says. "It means you understand what's at stake."
"But it also makes me want to prove him right." I take a shaky breath. "My whole life, I've been trying to escape my parents' shadow. Trying not to end up like them. And for years, I failed. I became exactly what I was afraid of."
"And now?"
"Now I'm pregnant. Now I have a chance to do things differently.
" I put my hand on my stomach, feeling the flutter of movement that's become familiar over the past few weeks.
"This baby doesn't know anything about my past. It doesn't know about the overdoses or the trap houses or the years I spent destroying myself.
It's just... a blank slate. A chance to start over. "
"That's a lot of pressure to put on a child," Patricia says gently.
"I know. I'm not trying to make the baby responsible for my sobriety. I just mean..." I struggle to find the words. "For the first time, I have something to lose that matters more than the high. For the first time, there's something I want more than I want to use."
The woman next to me—Sarah, mother of two, lost custody last year—reaches over and squeezes my hand.
"That's how it started for me too," she says quietly. "Wanting something more than the drugs. It's not enough on its own, but it's a start."
"It's a good start," Patricia agrees. "Hold onto that, Vanna. When the cravings come—and they will come—remember what you're fighting for."
I nod, pressing my hand harder against my stomach.
I'm fighting for this baby. For Garrett. For the family I never thought I'd have.
Christmas in rehab is strange.
The staff does their best to make it feel festive.
There's a tree in the common room, decorated with ornaments the residents made in art therapy.
Someone hung stockings from the fireplace mantel, each one labeled with a name.
Holiday music plays softly from speakers in the ceiling.
But it's still a rehab facility.
Still a place where people come to fight for their lives.
Garrett visits on Christmas morning, bringing Aunt Ellie with him again.
She's got a bag full of presents—warm socks, a fuzzy blanket, a journal with a leather cover, and a tiny onesie that says "Little Outlaw" on the front.
"Couldn't resist," she says, grinning. "Tildie picked it out. Said the baby needs to start repping the club early."
I laugh, holding the onesie up.
It's so small.
So impossibly small.
In a few months, there's going to be a baby wearing this.
My baby.
Our baby.
"The whole club wanted to come," Garrett says.
"Ruger had to practically tie Tildie down to keep her from piling into the truck.
Maddox offered to ride escort—said he'd follow us on his bike just to make sure we got here safe.
Coin asked if his girls could send you something, and I had to explain that you probably don't need a teenager's playlist of motivational songs. "
I laugh, imagining it. "That's sweet."
"That's the club. They've been asking about you every day. Checking in, wanting updates. Ruger pulls me aside after every church meeting to ask how you're doing." He pauses. "They care, Van. All of them. Even the ones who don't say it out loud."
"It's been so long since I was part of that," I admit. "Part of anything, really. The club, I mean. Before everything went wrong, I used to hang out at the clubhouse all the time. Remember? I'd help Aunt Ellie behind the bar, talk to the other ol’ ladies, feel like I belonged somewhere."
"I remember."
"And then I stopped. I pulled away from everyone. The addiction made me selfish—it made everything about the next fix, and there wasn't room for anything else. I pushed away everyone who tried to help." I swallow hard. "I pushed you away."
"You tried to," he says quietly. "I didn't let you."
"No. You didn't." I lean into him, letting his warmth seep into my bones. "But I figured you might want a quiet Christmas anyway. Just us. And Aunt Ellie, of course."
"You figured right. This is perfect."
We eat Christmas dinner in the cafeteria—turkey and mashed potatoes, and green bean casserole that tastes almost like the real thing.
Aunt Ellie tells stories about Christmases past, about the year Ruger got his first bike and crashed it into the garage door, about the time the club threw a party that lasted three days straight.
"Those boys know how to celebrate," she says, shaking her head. "Loud and messy and full of love. That's the Saint’s Outlaws way."
"I remember," I say quietly. "Before everything went wrong, Garrett and I spent Christmas at the clubhouse a few times. Everyone was there. It felt like... family."
"It is family," Aunt Ellie says firmly. "Blood doesn't make a family. Choice does. And those boys chose each other. They chose Garrett. And they're choosing you too."
The words settle into my chest and stay there.
After dinner, we sit by the window and watch the snow fall.
Garrett holds me close, one hand on my stomach, and I think about what's waiting for me when I get out of here.
Not just freedom, but belonging.
A place in the world.
A family that's bigger than just me and Garrett.
"Two weeks," I whisper.
"Two weeks," he agrees. "And then you're coming home."
Home.
The clubhouse.
A room with a bed that Garrett's been sleeping in alone for two months, waiting for me.
A garage full of bikes and brothers and the smell of oil and gasoline on everything.
A bar called Backroads where Aunt Ellie pours drinks and keeps everyone in line.
It's not the life I imagined when I was young.
It's not the white picket fence and the two-car garage and the normal that I thought I wanted.
But it's mine.
The last two weeks pass in a blur.
I write to my father twice more.
Short letters, careful letters, testing the waters of this new relationship.
He writes back each time, equally careful, equally cautious.
We're two people learning how to know each other again, and it's awkward and painful and strangely beautiful.
I go to group therapy.
I go to individual sessions with Patricia.
I take my prenatal vitamins and go to my doctor's appointments and watch my belly grow.
The baby moves constantly now, kicking and squirming, making his presence known.
I talk to Garrett every night on the phone.
He tells me about his day—the bikes he fixed, the meetings he sat through, the meals Aunt Ellie forced him to eat.
He tells me that Ruger's been asking about me, and that Tildie's planning a welcome home dinner.
"Ruger pulled me aside after church yesterday," Garrett says one night. "Told me the club's got my back, no matter what. Said if anyone gives you trouble when you get home, they answer to him."
"That's... really sweet."
"That's Ruger. He talks tough, but he's got a soft spot for family. And you're family, Van. The club knows it. Even if some of them were angry about what happened before, they're over it now. What matters is that you're getting better."
"And if I'm not better?" The fear slips out before I can stop it. "What if I get out and I mess up again?"
"Then we deal with it. Together. That's how the club works—we don't abandon our own." He pauses. "Ounce said something to me the other day. He said recovery isn't about being perfect. It's about getting back up every time you fall."
"Ounce talks to you about this stuff?"
"More than he used to. I think... I think watching you go through this brought some stuff up for him. His own history. He doesn't talk about it much, but it's there."
I think about Ounce—quiet, watchful, always seeming to know more than he says.
I knew he had a past, but I didn't know the details.
Maybe someday he'll tell me.
Maybe we can help each other.
"Tell him I said thank you," I say. "For the card. For all of it."
"I will."
He also tells me that Tildie's been setting up our room at the clubhouse—fresh sheets, new curtains, a corner cleared out for baby stuff when the time comes.
She even got Maddox to help her move a rocking chair in there, one that she found at a thrift store and refinished herself.
"She said every new mama needs a place to rock her baby," Garrett says, and his voice is thick with emotion. "These people, Van. They're something else."
"They really are."
I close my eyes and let his voice wash over me.
In two weeks, I'll be home.
In two weeks, I'll start the next chapter of my life—the hard part, the real part, where I have to stay clean without the walls of this facility keeping me safe.
But I won't be alone.
And maybe that's the difference this time.
Maybe that's what will make it work.
The night before I leave, I can't sleep.
I lie in my narrow bed, hand on my stomach, feeling the baby move.
Outside my window, the January sky is clear and full of stars.
Tomorrow, Garrett will be here.
Tomorrow, we'll drive four hours back to Morgantown, back to the clubhouse, back to the life I left behind.
I'm twelve weeks pregnant.
Twelve weeks clean.
Twelve weeks of fighting for something I want more than I've ever wanted anything.
And I'm terrified.
Not of the drugs—though that fear is there too, lurking in the back of my mind like a monster under the bed.
I'm terrified of hope.
Of wanting something this badly and losing it.
Of finally having a chance at happiness and watching it slip through my fingers.
But I've learned something in the past three months.
Fear isn't the enemy.
Giving up is, and I'm not giving up.
Not on myself, not on Garrett, not on this baby who's counting on me to get it right.
I close my eyes and picture the clubhouse.
The garage with its bikes lined up in rows.
The common room with its worn leather couches.
Garrett's room—our room now—with its bed and its dresser and its window that looks out over the compound.
I picture the brothers.
Ruger with his commanding presence and his protective instincts.
Maddox with his gentle hands and his quiet strength.
Coin with his daughters and his careful hope.
Ounce with his knowing eyes and his hard-won wisdom.
I picture the women.
Tildie with her fierce loyalty.
Aunt Ellie with her endless patience.
They're waiting for me.
All of them. A family I don't deserve but am being offered anyway.
Tomorrow, I go home.
Tonight, I let myself believe I'm ready.