And charges connected to Michael’s death.
At her second trial, she looked smaller.
No pearls.
No ivory silk.
No army of donors.
Her hair was plain.
Her hands shook.
For three weeks, I listened to testimony about the final months of my husband’s life.
Emails.
Bank transfers.
Threats disguised as family conversations.
At one point, Margaret turned toward me.
Our eyes met.
I expected hatred.
Instead, I saw something stranger.
Confusion.
As though even now she could not understand how a woman she had reduced to nothing had managed to remain standing.
She was convicted.
I felt no triumph.
Only quiet.
Outside the courthouse, reporters gathered behind barricades.
I walked past them.
Olivia was twelve now.
Grace ten.
Lily eight.
They waited beneath a tree with Richard.
Lily ran first.
She always did.
She collided with me so hard I almost fell.
“Is it over?”
I looked at my daughters.
