Her words hung in the air like a fragile bridge, teetering between hope and uncertainty.
I swallowed hard, my emotions a tangled mess. “You can’t just say that after everything. You made my life hell these past few weeks.”
“I know,” Deborah said, her voice trembling. “I don’t expect forgiveness right away. But… maybe we can try. Start fresh. I don’t want this house to divide us any more than it already has.”
For the first time, I saw her not as the bitter stranger who had made my life a nightmare, but as a broken woman trying to make amends. She wasn’t perfect—far from it—but neither was I.
I let out a long breath, gripping the strap of my suitcase. “I don’t know if I can just forget all of this.”
“You don’t have to,” she said, stepping closer. “But maybe we can remember the good parts too. Together.”
Her eyes were pleading, filled with a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before. And in that moment, I realized I had a choice: I could walk away, holding onto the anger and resentment, or I could try to build something new. Something fragile, but real.
I dropped my suitcase. “Alright,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s try.”
A tentative smile broke across her face. “Thank you,” she said softly.
And just like that, the house that had once felt like a battlefield became something else entirely—a chance for healing, for answers, and for a future neither of us could have expected.
