Her face lit up with hope.
“Really?”
“Really. But Emily, if you ever treat anyone in that house badly again—if you ever go back to being the cruel person you were with me—this agreement is over.”
“Understood. Understood.”
Six months later, in October, things had changed drastically.
Daniel and I had a rebuilt relationship.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.
Honest.
We saw each other twice a week.
Talked on the phone.
He actually asked for my opinion—not just out of politeness.
Emily had improved a lot.
She was still proud.
But she had learned to restrain herself.
To be grateful.
To share.
One day, she called me.
“Beatatrice, could we get coffee? Just the two of us?”
I agreed, curious.
We met at a neutral Starbucks.
“I want to offer you something,” Emily said, taking papers out of her bag. “I’ve been saving and I spoke with the bank. I can get a loan.”
