The last time I saw Diane was in court.
Before sentencing, she turned toward me.
For a moment, she looked exactly like the mother I remembered growing up.
The woman who sat beside my bed when I had a fever.
The woman who applauded when I graduated.
The woman who helped button my wedding dress.
Then I remembered the woman in that hospital room.
Her hands gripping Clara’s blanket.
Her voice telling me I didn’t deserve everything I had been given.
And I finally understood.
She had spent my entire life convincing me that every good thing I had came from her.
But she hadn’t given me my life.
She had stolen it.
The judge sentenced her to life without parole.
Outside the courthouse, Brielle stood several feet away.
We weren’t close anymore.
Maybe we never would be.
But she had entered therapy, sold almost everything she owned, and used the proceeds to repay part of what she had spent from the stolen accounts.
