Chapter 6 - WHAT I FAILED TO NOTICE
I wanted Rhea to be responsible for everything.
It would have been emotionally convenient.
Then Naomi showed me my signatures.
Foundation approvals.
Annual statements.
Administrator compensation.
Memorial grants.
I had signed.
Not every page.
Enough.
“You approved Rhea’s administrative renewals.”
“I thought Serena appointed her before the accident.”
“She did, temporarily.”
“Then?”
“After Serena’s presumed death, you could have reviewed.”
I did not.
I was grieving.
Then raising Perrin.
Then running my company.
All true.
Still:
I signed.
I trusted.
I did not ask.
That mattered.
One statement contained:
Neurological recovery outreach — $184,000.
I remembered.
Rhea told me it funded traumatic-brain-injury programs because Serena had cared about them.
I cried when I signed.
Some of that money had gone to Serena’s own care.
Rhea had used my grief as camouflage.
But I had not read.
No criminal guilt.
Moral lesson.
Different.
Then the supported-residence address was confirmed.
Police visited.
Serena was no longer there.
My hope collapsed.
“She left?”
“Three months ago.”
“With Rhea?”
“No.”
That surprised everyone.
Serena left voluntarily with assistance from a patient advocate.
Where?
Confidential transitional housing.
Why?
According to records, she had regained significant memory and become increasingly suspicious of Rhea.
She requested independent legal help.
Three months ago.
Around the same time Rhea began pushing to formalize our engagement.
Not coincidence.
Still not proof of every motive.
Serena’s advocate had filed something.
A confidential petition to restore legal identity and challenge the death declaration.
Court sealed temporarily because Serena feared retaliation and media exposure.
Rhea apparently did not know the petition had been filed.
That meant Serena was not helpless anymore.
She was acting.
On her own.
That mattered enormously.
The judge authorized limited notification:
Serena knew I had been informed she might be alive.
She did not want immediate direct contact.
I nearly stopped breathing.
“She doesn’t want to see me?”
Naomi touched my shoulder.
“Not yet.”
That word.
Again.
But this time it belonged to Serena.
I respected it.
Even though it hurt.
Perrin?
Serena requested communication through a child therapist first.
Why?
Because she had been told Perrin believed she died.
She did not want to appear suddenly and disappear again.
Good.
Careful.
Adult.
Not Rhea’s version.
Then the patient advocate sent one statement Serena permitted me to receive.
I am alive. I remember you. I am not ready to explain everything yet. Please keep Perrin safe from Rhea.
That was all.
I read it twenty times.
Then Perrin asked:
“Mom?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“Alive?”
I had therapist guidance.
No lies.
“Yes.”
He started crying.
Not joy exactly.
Overwhelm.
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“Can I see?”
“Not today.”
He frowned.
“Too many tomorrows.”
I held him.
May you like
“Yes.”
But now there was finally a tomorrow to count toward.
