I pressed the call button, summoning help to get Stephen into the emergency room just in time. It wasn’t because I cared whether he lived or died; the fact that he still had my daughter meant he couldn’t die yet.
When Stephen regained consciousness and learned it was me who had called for help, he had a rare moment of conscience and actually apologized.
“Teresa, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have trusted that woman. Can we start over? Wipe the slate clean and forget the past?”
A storm of emotions surged within me.
Forget the past?
Forgive the man who killed my daughter?
The hatred between us was irreconcilable!
How could I possibly let go of the grudge against the murderer who, in my past life, had stabbed me thirty–eight times?
If I forgave him, it would be no different than inviting death.
Suppressing my seething hatred, I forced a sigh and said, “We’re family. Let’s not talk about being divided. I’m glad to see you’ve come around. Let’s move forward and live well from now on. Bring our daughter home. She must miss her parents.‘
11
Stephen lit up with joy at my words, his face practically glowing with excitement. “Of course! I’ll call my parents right now to bring her back.”
