I hung up.

Outside, Mara had gone quiet. Mark said nothing more.

I started the engine and drove away.

When I got home, the girls were at the table with my mother, coloring, laughter slipping out in small bursts.

I stood there for a moment, watching.

My mother looked up. “How was your day, Arnie?”

I smiled.

“Never better, Mom.”

That was a month ago.

The mansion that once belonged to Mara and Mark is now a residential retreat for injured veterans, with therapy rooms, a garden, and a workshop for adaptive limb innovation.

I didn’t name it after myself.

I wanted it to be a place where people who had lost something could learn they weren’t finished.

As for Mara and Mark, their story ended the way those stories usually do. I heard enough to understand.

Some endings don’t need revenge. They just need time to reach their own conclusions.