One year later, the Harold Davis Foundation opened its first treatment center in Columbus.
The building stood on the land once occupied by my parents’ house.
I had the house demolished.
Not out of revenge.
Because some foundations must be cleared before anything honest can be built.
Melanie became the foundation’s financial compliance director, supervised by an independent board.
She joked that after helping uncover twenty-three forged documents, she had become unusually passionate about signatures.
Margaret managed patient advocacy.
Walter retired, though he visited every Tuesday and complained about the coffee.
Dr. Hart led the medical team.
And Wyatt?
Wyatt waited.
He never pressured me to marry him.
He attended therapy.
He testified.
He answered every question I asked, even when the truth made him look terrible.
Two years after the night of the attack, he brought me back to the hospital garden where I had first seen his face clearly after surgery.
He held no ring.
“I already asked you once while keeping secrets,” he said. “I won’t ask again until you tell me I’ve earned the right.”
I looked at the man who had caught me before my face struck the porch.
The man who had lied to protect me.
The man who had learned that love could not survive without truth.
“You haven’t earned the right,” I said.
His expression fell.
I smiled.
“You earned the answer.”
Then I took a small velvet box from my coat pocket.
Inside was Grandpa’s restored silver watch—and a ring tied around its chain.
Wyatt stared at me.
“Sadie…”
“Will you marry me?”
He laughed, cried, and dropped to his knees even though I was the one proposing.
“Yes.”
