Chapter 8 - VICTORIA AGAIN
I saw Victoria again at thirty-two.
Fourteen years after the foyer.
Not planned.
Airport lounge.
Denver.
She looked older.
Silver in blonde hair.
No high heels.
I recognized her first.
She saw me.
Stopped.
Could have walked away.
Did not.
“Ethan.”
“Victoria.”
Then awkward.
She asked:
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
Meaningless.
Then:
“I read about your company.”
“Okay.”
Then:
“I use your audit checklist at work.”
That surprised me.
She worked for a nonprofit housing network.
Operations compliance.
No fiduciary authority.
Still.
Then she said:
“I almost emailed you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You didn’t owe me access.”
Good.
That showed change.
Then I asked:
“Do you still think my mother stole from your family?”
She paused.
“No.”
“Do you think my grandfather did?”
“Yes.”
Fair.
“Does that change what you did?”
“No.”
Good.
Then:
“I spent years wanting history to explain me enough that it would excuse me.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t.”
That was mature.
Then she asked:
“Did Richard ever forgive me?”
“I don’t know.”
True.
Not my relationship.
Then:
“Did you?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
I had learned that answer from others? Fine.
Then:
“I don’t think about you much.”
She smiled sadly.
“That’s probably healthier.”
Yes.
Then boarding call.
We separated.
No hug.
No exchange numbers.
Enough.
Then I realized seeing her did not trigger fear.
Just memory.
That was healing.
After the airport meeting, I realized I had spent years imagining Victoria still thinking about me.
She probably did sometimes.
But her life had continued too.
That was strangely freeing.
Trauma can make you believe the people who hurt you remain permanently centered on you.
May you like
Often they do not.
Healing includes letting them become smaller in your own story too.
