Chapter 17 - Returning to Hawthorne
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Two months after the trial ended, the double glass doors of St. Matthew’s Hospital NICU finally opened for the last time.
My daughter, Clara, now weighing a healthy seven pounds, six ounces, gurgled happily in her plush pink car seat. Her bright blue eyes—the exact shade of my father's—stared up at me with innocence and trust.
Maya drove us home in my dad's restored vintage pickup truck.
As we pulled up the long, winding gravel driveway of Hawthorne House, the afternoon sun was filtering softly through the towering oak trees that my grandfather had planted eighty years ago. The house stood proud, majestic, and untouched—a sanctuary carved out of stone, timber, and love.
Maya helped me carry Clara’s nursery supplies up the front porch steps.
"Are you going to be okay staying here alone?" Maya asked gently, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm not alone, Maya," I smiled, looking down at my daughter sleeping peacefully in my arms. "I have Clara. I have my father's memory. And I have you."
Maya smiled through her tears, stepping forward to give me a tight, careful hug that avoided the healing scars on my neck. "I'm moving into an apartment near the university next week. I start my new job at Daniel Mercer's architectural firm on Monday."
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"He's a good man," I said softly. "Your brother didn't inherit any of his honor, but I'm glad you did."
After Maya drove away, I carried Clara into the master nursery on the second floor. The room was flooded with warm, golden sunlight. I laid her down in the mahogany crib my father had carved with his own hands twenty years ago, watching her tiny chest rise and fall in a rhythmic, peaceful sleep.
