Chapter 8 - The Sentence He Couldn’t Give Back to Me
The criminal case took almost a year to resolve.
There were dates that changed.
Documents that arrived late.
Questions I had already answered and needed to answer again.
Some days, the waiting felt like another room I could not leave.
Aisha and the victim services coordinator helped me understand what was happening without promising a particular result.
I learned to distinguish a delay from a defeat.
I also learned that I did not have to spend every evening reading updates.
Before the scheduled trial, Derek entered guilty pleas under an agreement reviewed in court.
The offenses addressed the assault and his role in the financial conduct supported by the investigation.
Suzanne’s case was handled separately.
Her cooperation, her own actions, and the evidence all formed part of that process.
None of it resembled the television scenes where one secret document settles every grievance in five minutes.
It was slower.
Less satisfying to watch.
More important to get right.
I chose to speak at Derek’s sentencing.
For weeks, I tried to write something that would make him understand.
Dr. Ruiz asked me a question.
“If he doesn’t understand, what would you still want the court to hear?”
That changed the statement.
I stopped writing for him.
I wrote about myself.
On the morning of the hearing, Tessa came with me. Rosa sat beside her. Marcus had arranged my schedule so I did not have to worry about work.
I wore a navy dress and a small gold necklace my mother had given me.
My scar was visible.
For once, I had not planned my neckline around it.
Derek stood when instructed.
He looked at me briefly, then down.
When it was my turn, I carried two printed pages to the lectern.
“My name is Elena Morales,” I began.
My voice shook.
I continued.
“Before this happened, I believed I was good at managing difficult situations. I handled delays, emergencies, and financial problems for a living. At home, I used those same skills to make excuses.”
I described the keys.
The cabinet.
The demands.
How the apartment I bought with years of savings became a place where I asked permission to make ordinary decisions.
“I am still recovering from the injury. I have also spent months recovering access to my accounts, my friendships, and my own judgment.”
I looked at the judge.
“The sentence I heard after he threw the coffee was, ‘See what you made me do.’ I carried responsibility for his anger long before that morning. I don’t carry it now.”
I did not ask the court to make him feel what I had felt.
I did not ask for an apology.
I asked that the harm be understood as more than a bad argument.
When I returned to my seat, Rosa took my hand.
Derek spoke afterward.
This time, he said he was responsible.
There were no explanations about the stress of helping Suzanne.
No claim that I had stepped into the wrong place.
I listened without deciding whether the words represented remorse, advice from counsel, or the first honest thing he had said in years.
I did not need to solve him.
The judge imposed a sentence that included incarceration, financial obligations, and continuing restrictions as applicable to the case.
There were instructions about restitution and the processes still ahead.
I wrote down nothing.
The people helping me would make sure I had the documents.
For once, I allowed myself simply to be present.
Outside, reporters waited for someone connected to a different case.
Nobody asked me a question.
The world did not stop.
A bus sighed at the curb.
A woman hurried past carrying balloons.
Tessa asked whether I wanted lunch.
“Yes,” I said.
“What kind?”
The question nearly made me cry.
Not because it was difficult.
Because I was allowed to answer it.
We went to a small restaurant where nobody knew us.
Rosa ordered enough food for six people.
Halfway through lunch, I laughed at something Tessa said and realized I had gone several minutes without thinking about Derek.
That evening, I returned to my apartment alone.
I stood at the kitchen entrance.
The table was still there.
The same one.
For months, I had refused to replace it because I thought getting rid of it would mean he had taken another thing.
Now I understood I could choose differently without surrendering.
I listed it for donation.
A family collecting furniture for a new apartment picked it up the following weekend.
The woman ran a hand over the wood.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes,” I said.
May you like
I watched it leave.
Then I opened the balcony doors and let the room fill with air.
