"None of that now," Aunt Ellie says, pulling back. "You're doing good, girl. Real good. I'm proud of you."
We find a cluster of chairs by the window and settle in.
Vanna curls up against my side, her head on my shoulder, and I hold her like I'm never going to let go.
"There's something I need to tell you," I say after a while.
She tenses slightly. "What is it?"
"I went to see your father."
The silence that follows is heavy.
Vanna doesn't move, doesn't speak, barely seems to breathe.
I can feel her heart pounding against my chest where she's pressed against me.
I wait, giving her time to process.
"When?" she finally asks.
"Yesterday."
"Why?" There's no accusation in her voice. Just confusion. Maybe a little fear.
It's a fair question. I'm not sure I have a good answer.
"I needed to know if recovery was possible," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully. "Real recovery. The kind that lasts. And I figured... he's been where you are. He might understand things I don't."
"You could have asked Ounce."
"Ounce isn't your blood. Your father is." I pause. "And I guess... I wanted to see for myself. Whether people can change. Whether the man who hurt you so badly could become someone different."
She's quiet, processing this. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding on.
"And? What did he say?"
"He's been clean for nearly twelve years now. Says the structure helped him find strength he didn't know he had." I take a breath. "He cried when I told him you were pregnant. Said you're breaking the cycle."
Vanna makes a small sound—something between a laugh and a sob. "Breaking the cycle. That's what I've been afraid of. That I can't break it. That I'm doomed to repeat it."
"You're not doomed to anything, Van. You're choosing something different. Every single day you stay clean, you're choosing something different."
She's quiet for a long moment.
When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I haven't talked to him since he went in. Twelve years."
"I know."
"I blamed him for everything. For Mom. For the addiction. For all of it. He's the one who brought drugs into our house. He's the one who got Mom hooked. He's the one who—" Her voicebreaks. "I will never get that image of her dead body out of my mind, Garrett. And I blamed him for every second of it."
"That's fair. He blames himself too."
"Does he?" There's an edge to her voice now. "Does he really understand what he did? What he took from me?"
"I think so. I think he's spent twelve years in a cell thinking about nothing else." I pull back slightly so I can look at her. "He's not asking for absolution, Van. He knows he doesn't deserve it. He just wants you to know that he sees you. That he's proud of what you're doing."
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes searching my face. "Does he want to see me?"
