Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
POPPY
My apartment is ice cold when I open the door.
Of course it is.
I forgot to change it on the app this morning when Oliver and I got on the train. It’ll take hours for this place to heat to something livable.
After I flip on the lights and drop my bags, I cross the small main room to turn on the heater.
My fingers around the crutches’ handles are stiff, and my shoulders convulse from cold.
The old radiator hisses when I press the button—it’ll take at least a couple of minutes to kick in, and far longer to actually heat the room.
I rub my cold temples hard enough to hurt.
How could I be such an idiot?
Add it to the list of ways I’ve failed this week.
I keep my coat on while I unpack my bag. It’s a good thing I had enough clothes to last as long as I did. I expected to be in Georgia until this morning, anyway, when my plane was originally supposed to leave. Back before I had a nervous breakdown.
The motion I’d spent three weeks crafting sits crumpled at the bottom of my bag—forty-seven pages of carefully researched precedent, victim impact mitigation, family circumstances, and character evidence. All worthless now.
How many times did I interview Marcus’s wife. Three? Four times? I sat with his kids—Liam and Sofia—and watched them try to be brave while their world crumbled. Liam kept asking if I really thought I could help. Sofia cried.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promised them. The same promise the attorney on my dad’s case made to Mom and me years ago in a courthouse hallway that smelled like stale Pine Sol and crushed dreams.
Federal fraud sentencing guidelines are strict, and Marcus was looking at 15-20 years minimum.
With the loss amount involved, it could have been more.
But I’d found threads to pull. His gambling addiction started after his mother’s cancer diagnosis.
The medical bills were too high. The desperation was too intense.
It was the same desperation that had driven my father to think he could fix everything if he just took a little more from some escrow accounts.
I’d built a compelling mitigation package.
Letters from the families of the soccer teams he coached, medical records showing his mother’s treatment costs.
He’d started Gamblers Anonymous, and his sponsor even wrote a letter.
His fraud wasn’t born of greed. It was still wrong—he understood that.
He was pleading guilty! But he had genuine remorse and was taking steps toward recovery.
I’d even found a case in the Ninth Circuit where similar circumstances had resulted in a downward departure—a sentence below the federal guidelines minimum.
I was ready as could be.
When I stood up in that courtroom in Augusta five days ago, I began my presentation with the same confidence I began all of them.
“Your Honor,” I started, looking Judge Morrison in his weathered face. “Mr. Chen’s circumstances present compelling grounds for a downward departure under Section 5K1.1.”
I cited the medical documentation, referenced United States v. Rodriguez from the Eleventh Circuit, and outlined his community service coaching youth soccer. The judge was nodding. Marcus’s attorney looked cautiously optimistic. Everything was going smoothly.
Until I made the mistake of looking in the gallery. My eyes caught on Liam and Sofia and wouldn’t move.
Sofia was hiding behind her hands, but I could see the tears staining the sleeves of her sweater. Liam had a familiar, hollow look in his eyes—an awful mixture of hope and terror as a stranger in a suit promised to save their father.
Me.
I was the stranger in a suit.
My palms slipped on the edge of the lectern, slick with sweat, even though the air in the courtroom felt frigid. When my voice broke, it echoed too loud in the microphone, sharp and humiliating, a crack that felt like it split me open.
I pulled my gaze away, but it fell on Marcus.
He had the same defeated posture my father had in those final court appearances.
The same way of holding his shoulders, like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he could shrink into nothingness if it would spare his family the pain that was coming.
The words died in my throat.
Judge Morrison waited. The prosecutor waited. Marcus’s attorney waited.
I couldn’t remember what came next in my argument. All I could see was my father in his orange jumpsuit, the way he couldn’t meet my eyes when the judge gave him over ten years more than we expected.
“Ms. Lewis?” the judge prompted.
I tried to continue, but I couldn’t find my voice. “I … the defendant’s family circumstances …” I looked at Liam and Sofia again. Liam was crying now, wiping the tears quietly with the sleeve of his sweater.
I was going to fail them. All my expertise, all my research, all my promises—none of it mattered. Marcus was going to get the maximum sentence because I wasn’t good enough.
“Your Honor, I apologize, I need a moment.” My hands were shaking as I shuffled my papers.
Judge Morrison declared a recess. I barely made it to the bathroom before I completely fell apart.
Marcus got fifteen years, same as my dad. It was less than prosecution wanted, but it might as well have been a death sentence. He’ll be fifty-six when he gets out.
Liam and Sofia will graduate college while their father sits in a cell.
They could get married and have children before he’s released.
They’ll build their lives around the same father-shaped hole I’ve failed to build one around.
And Marcus will miss all those years of helping with homework, seeing them off to dances and parties, giving them hugs and lectures when they need them.
Prison will destroy him.
Liam and Sofia will never feel whole again.
They’ll never feel safe or seen again. Maybe they’ll commit themselves to being happy, but it’ll be a lie to cover how much they hurt all the time.
I drop to the kitchen table, bundled in a winter hat and blankets and hold my head in my hands. Why did I think I could do this? That somehow I was the one who could make a difference in all these people’s lives? I’m not good enough to save anyone.
And I’m not honest enough to deserve love.
The thought arrives fully formed, sharp as a blade.
Oliver told me what happened to his brother. Told me how the justice system failed his family. And I said nothing. Did nothing. Just nodded along like I understood, when I knew he would see me as part of the problem.
I worked for Mercy in Justice. I didn’t just help reduce sentences for people like Darren Murphy, I literally helped HIM—and I would do it again.
Why didn’t I put the pieces together before today? Why couldn’t I have told him?
Further proof of why I don’t deserve love. When Oliver needed honesty from me—when he was vulnerable enough to share his deepest wounds—I stayed silent.
I told myself it wasn’t the right time. That we were passing strangers. That it wasn’t relevant because I’d already quit.
But it was relevant. And I knew it. And I hid it anyway.
Just like I hid my ankle. Just like I hide everything that might make someone reject me.
No wonder he pulled away. No wonder he disappeared. Who could love someone who tries to hide all her mistakes and ugliness?
My mom couldn’t wait to leave Rochester. My love life is a list of guys I practically begged to care about me and who couldn’t wait to leave when they got so much as a peek behind the curtain of my sunshiny demeanor. And then there’s Arrow and Oliver. The man who knows me best in two worlds.
The only person who’s ever really seen me—my anxieties and people-pleasing, the way I hold myself together with duct tape and fake smiles—and both times he’s chosen to walk away.
Because I’m exhausting to love.
Because knowing me is a burden.
The heater finally kicks in with a hiss and a clang, but I don’t take off my coat or drop my blankets.
The cold has settled deep in my bones, and I don’t think it’s ever going away.
My old truck rumbles past the main entrance of St. Mark’s—a nearly 200-year-old stone church with Gothic arches and stained glass windows that glow even in the gray afternoon light.
Red poinsettias line the front steps, and garlands are draped over the double doors.
Someone’s hung white lanterns along the walkway, and there’s a floral archway at the west entrance, all decorated for the holiday season—or maybe for a wedding.
Or a funeral.
Hard to tell sometimes.
I head past the main parking lot for the small one to the east of the church, where the basement entrance is. I check my one missed text when I park.
Mom
Thinking about you. Wish I could be there for you, hon.
Me too, I think as I send a heart emoji back.
I step out of my truck and pull my thick wool coat tighter as I stare at the brown church doors adorned with Christmas wreaths. Snowflakes fall fast around me, landing on my face like kisses from heaven.
If kisses from heaven stung.
I left the crutches at my apartment, unwilling to let my family see my injury. My ankle has improved, but hurt pulses out from my heart with every beat, making me feel as weak as the day I injured it. I’m so sick of this incessant, dull ache, I could cry.
I limp through the sparse parking lot and down the stairs, fifteen minutes late for the “party” I’ve been planning for years.
I arranged for everything to be sent to the prison ministry when my boss assigned me to Marcus’s case, and fortunately, my dad’s Aunt Marla only lives a few hours away, so she offered to show up early to help decorate.
Am I allowed to feel relieved that I didn’t have to decorate? Or should the very question make me feel even worse?
Inside, I head down carpeted halls to the fellowship hall.
The muffled bass line of some cheerful ‘80s song seeps through the doors, mocking me.
My throat cinches tight, each swallow scraping like glass.
The snow still burns on my face where it melted and froze against my skin.
The sound of the music gets louder the closer I get.
And when I reach the door, I see a banner with a picture of my dad that reads:
“Celebrating Kevin Lewis—A Time For Homecoming.”
It’s pretty—even nicer in person than it looked online, with bold script lettering. And it has one of my favorite pictures of him from twenty years ago, with his big, handsome smile and warm brown eyes. Staring at that face, the ache in my ankle fades away, nothing compared to the pain in my chest.
This man never came home.
I’ll never stop missing him.
I stand outside the door, not wanting to go in, until I hear a voice from behind me.
“So handsome,” a voice says.
I whip around to see someone familiar. She’s in her early 70s, with thick brown hair and a nice smile.
“I’m glad you finally made it, sweetheart,” she says, leaning forward to give me a hug. Her arms wrap around me, and I get a whiff of a strong floral perfume.
“It’s good seeing you again, Aunt Marla,” I say, though it’s been a couple of years and that last visit is blurry in my memory. “Thank you for coming.”
“Anything for your dad.” She links her arm in mine, clutching it tightly. “Shall we?”
The unexpected warmth makes it easier to hide my limp. To brace myself for the pain inside.
“Let’s go,” I say, though I feel like my heart’s going to explode.
My breath catches in my throat as Aunt Marla pulls the door open.
My eyes zip around the room, passing streamers and the posters I ordered on the walls, purposefully avoiding the spot in the corner where my Uncle Bill and his family have congregated.
There are maybe ten people total, even fewer than I expected.
A couple second cousins once removed. The pastor from the church we attended when I was a kid.
Dad’s older sister couldn’t get a flight in from where she lives in the UK.
Disappointment cankers deep in my chest.
What did I expect? His old coworkers? The boss he defrauded? The community he betrayed? Did I really think neighbors and our old friends would be lining up to see the man who betrayed them? No, the people here are obligated by family or beliefs.
Nothing else.
This is it.
All the people who came to celebrate my dad could barely make a baseball team.
Why did I think of baseball?
You know why.
I do know why, and that only makes it hurt worse.
Marla drags me into the room, and my vintage ankle boots shuffle against the linoleum floor. My stomach lurches high in my chest. There’s not enough noise to turn individual voices into a dull drone. If I wanted, I could listen in on any of the conversations, most of which feel forced.
Each step forward feels like pulling stitches out of a wound that hasn’t closed.
My ankle throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the empty cavern in my chest. The banner shows my dad’s smile—warm, whole, alive—and it guts me.
He never came home. Not for Christmas, not for birthdays, not for anything.
And now I’m supposed to celebrate a man who’s been gone for years as if we got a homecoming after all.
My stomach twists, bile rising, but Aunt Marla tugs me closer, steering me toward the corner I’ve been avoiding—the place Uncle Bill and his family have already staked out.
Except, they part when they see me. Uncle Bill hugs me first, wrapping strong arms around me that I can barely feel. A shame, considering how much I love being hugged.
“It’s good to see you, Gracie Lou,” he says. I have to hold back a sob.
Aunt Amy grabs me next, pulling me into a soft, tender hug that I wish so badly I could enjoy. Cousins I barely know have long faces and sad eyes.
When my aunt releases me, my heart starts racing, pumping too hard.
Acid climbs up my throat. And the blood feels like it’s draining from my limbs as I stare at a table full of pictures and photo books, notes people have left with their favorite memories, and stacks of the letters he received in prison, letters the guards claimed were his most prized possessions.
And there, front and center, is the picture of Dad and me when he taught me to ride a bike—his favorite picture, he always said—because of how big my smile was.
But I don’t see the smiling little girl in the photo.
I see the dad who’s looking at his little girl like she’s the only thing that matters.
This photo is a lie.
It was a lie two years ago at his funeral, and it’s a lie today, at the “release day” party he always dreamed about.
He simply dreamed he’d be here for it.
So did I.