At seven years old, I chased my mother’s wedding car down the street screaming, but she never looked back.

Later that evening, I sat alone in my penthouse apartment overlooking the glittering Seattle skyline.

The rain had stopped, leaving the city streets washed clean and shining under the moonlight. On the glass bedside table, right beside my smart-home control pad and digital clock, sat Mr. Buttons. His missing eye stared blankly ahead, and his green-threaded ear looked a little more worn than it had fifteen years ago, but he was home.

My phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text message from David Vance: Assets successfully seized and liquidated. Total settlement credited to your personal foundation account. She has been relocated to temporary state housing per court guidelines.

I stared at the screen for a long moment. There was no surge of triumphant joy, no overwhelming wave of hatred or revenge. Instead, there was something far better: absolute, unshakeable peace.

The debt was paid. The past was settled. The little girl who had screamed in the rain behind a departing car no longer lived in the shadows of my mind. She was finally free.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a warm cup of tea, and watched the cars moving smoothly along the highway far below. They weren't running away anymore. They were just driving forward, into a future of my own making.