Chapter 10 - The Last Spreadsheet
Later that night, long after our guests had departed, the dishes were washed, and the house had settled into a soft, cozy quiet, I sat at my desk in the home office.
The snow was falling softly outside the window, dusting the glass in delicate white crystals.
I opened my laptop and pulled up an old file saved on my desktop: Family_Contributions_and_Exclusions.xlsx—the exact spreadsheet I had printed out and placed between my parents’ crystal goblets on that cold Christmas night two years ago.
I stared at the rows of numbers, the documented slights, the heating bills, and the calculated cruelties of a life I had left behind.
I clicked on the master file, selected the entire document, and hovered my cursor over the delete button.
For a long time, that spreadsheet had been my weapon—a boundary forged in anger to protect my daughter from a family that refused to love her. But keeping a record of past pain is only useful when you’re still fighting the war.
We had won the war. Leah was safe, secure, and surrounded by unconditional love. Her name was legally, emotionally, and permanently etched into our lives. She didn't need a spreadsheet to prove her worth, and neither did I.
I pressed Delete.
The screen cleared. A dialog box popped up: “Are you sure you want to permanently delete this file?”
I clicked Yes.
I closed the laptop, stood up, and walked down the quiet hallway to Leah’s bedroom. Her door was slightly ajar, letting a soft strip of warm yellow light spill out onto the carpet from her nightlight.
I stepped inside quietly. Leah was fast asleep, tucked beneath a thick quilt, holding the stuffed turtle she had carried to the courthouse on the day her adoption was finalized four years ago. On her bedside table sat a framed photo of the three of us at the Father-Daughter dance, all of us laughing, unposed, and completely happy.
I leaned down, pulled the quilt up over her shoulders, and softly kissed her forehead.
“Goodnight, Leah,” I whispered.
May you like
She stirred slightly in her sleep, burying her face deeper into her pillow, a faint, peaceful smile playing on her lips.
I stepped out of the room, leaving the door open just enough for the light to guide her, and walked back to Nina. We had left the folding chairs in the past where they belonged, and in their place, we had built a home where there would always be room at the table.
