The Ghost in My House Was Me - Chapter 13: Chapter 13
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Kevin keeps trying to corner me to talk about our son.
I spot Sarah waiting in her car by the side of the road, leaning out the window and waving at me like she's trying to flag down a parade.
I bounce on my toes, waving back like an overexcited kid.
As I sprint toward her, I toss a careless remark over my shoulder at Kevin:
"Kid's all yours now. Figure it out. Good luck with that."
He takes a few hurried steps after me, his eyes burning with urgency.
"Haley, I'll wait for you—"
But I'm already sliding into Sarah's car, where the sun is golden and the breeze smells like possibility.
His words dissolve into the wind.
Inside Sarah's obnoxiously flashy sports car, the bass is cranked so high it vibrates in my chest. The air is a mix of her expensive perfume and the crisp, open road.
We speed down the highway, the autumn air rushing through my fingers like liquid freedom.
"Haley!" Sarah shouts over the music, grinning like she's about to set the world on fire.
"Let's disappear—drive straight off the map!"
I throw my head back and laugh, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep and untamed.
"Hell yes!"
"Let's go!!"
As night falls, we drive to a field of flowers—endless rows of blossoms swaying gently in the evening breeze.
We pitch a tent and lie beneath the vast, star-studded sky, breathing in the crisp night air. The silence between us is comfortable, but my thoughts won't stay quiet.
Finally, I ask the question that's been gnawing at me.
"Sarah… why are you so good to me?"
She turns, cupping my face in her hands, her eyes soft but unwavering.
"Haley, it wasn't chance. It wasn't fate."
She takes a deep breath.
"Seven years ago… I met you."
The stars seem to hold their breath as she continues.
"You were my mother's lawyer. She was almost 80, desperate to divorce my father. She came to you."
Memories flood back as I study Sarah's face—the same sharp cheekbones, the same determined gaze.
The face of an old woman, weathered by years of silent suffering.
"Lawyer Winstone, I want a divorce. I can't live with him anymore. Forty years, and he's never really looked at me. Everyone says he's a saint—that I, an uneducated woman, should be grateful to have married a college graduate like him. But I can't take it anymore. Please… help me."
Her gnarled hands had clutched mine, trembling with desperation.
I was just starting out back then. My mentor warned me to turn her away. But something in her voice—the raw, quiet agony—made me stay.
"She has no money. At her age, her family will fight this tooth and nail."
I took the case anyway. And sure enough, the backlash was brutal.
Her children stormed my office, smashing furniture, screaming that I'd swindled their mother. I hadn't charged her a dime, but they stood outside for days, demanding I return the money I'd supposedly stolen.
In the end, the old woman gathered her documents and left.
She was illiterate. She didn't know how to build a case. All she had were blurry photos of her life with her husband—two pairs of chopsticks, two shoe racks, two separate bedrooms, two bowls set far apart on the table.
She didn't know how to record emotional abuse. She just cried into the camera, her voice breaking.
"His things are his. Mine are mine. It's been this way for decades. People only see me yelling, hitting him—they don't see the knives he slides between my ribs every day."
"Miss, please… My youngest daughter is studying abroad. When she returns, she'll pay you. Just help me now, okay?"
I agreed. But after her son dragged her out that day, she never came back.
Now, lying beside Sarah under the stars, the truth clicks into place.
"You're that daughter."
She nods. "Yeah. It's me."
My chest tightens. "Did she… did she ever get the divorce?"
Sarah exhales, her gaze fixed on the horizon like she's recounting someone else's tragedy.
"Mom killed herself. Everyone called her crazy—said she destroyed Dad. But I know the truth. He drained her life, drop by drop. I'll never forgive him."
Her voice wavers.
"I looked for you. I needed to thank you. Before she died, Mom told me about you—the lawyer who believed her. Who could've proved she wasn't insane."
Then, by some twist of fate, Sarah found me—a struggling single mom selling handmade crafts at a flea market.
A woman named Haley.
Word spread as we shared our story with others. More people need to recognize the hidden wounds of emotional abuse within families—that's why I decided to put it into words.
So here it is.
(The End)
I spot Sarah waiting in her car by the side of the road, leaning out the window and waving at me like she's trying to flag down a parade.
I bounce on my toes, waving back like an overexcited kid.
As I sprint toward her, I toss a careless remark over my shoulder at Kevin:
"Kid's all yours now. Figure it out. Good luck with that."
He takes a few hurried steps after me, his eyes burning with urgency.
"Haley, I'll wait for you—"
But I'm already sliding into Sarah's car, where the sun is golden and the breeze smells like possibility.
His words dissolve into the wind.
Inside Sarah's obnoxiously flashy sports car, the bass is cranked so high it vibrates in my chest. The air is a mix of her expensive perfume and the crisp, open road.
We speed down the highway, the autumn air rushing through my fingers like liquid freedom.
"Haley!" Sarah shouts over the music, grinning like she's about to set the world on fire.
"Let's disappear—drive straight off the map!"
I throw my head back and laugh, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep and untamed.
"Hell yes!"
"Let's go!!"
As night falls, we drive to a field of flowers—endless rows of blossoms swaying gently in the evening breeze.
We pitch a tent and lie beneath the vast, star-studded sky, breathing in the crisp night air. The silence between us is comfortable, but my thoughts won't stay quiet.
Finally, I ask the question that's been gnawing at me.
"Sarah… why are you so good to me?"
She turns, cupping my face in her hands, her eyes soft but unwavering.
"Haley, it wasn't chance. It wasn't fate."
She takes a deep breath.
"Seven years ago… I met you."
The stars seem to hold their breath as she continues.
"You were my mother's lawyer. She was almost 80, desperate to divorce my father. She came to you."
Memories flood back as I study Sarah's face—the same sharp cheekbones, the same determined gaze.
The face of an old woman, weathered by years of silent suffering.
"Lawyer Winstone, I want a divorce. I can't live with him anymore. Forty years, and he's never really looked at me. Everyone says he's a saint—that I, an uneducated woman, should be grateful to have married a college graduate like him. But I can't take it anymore. Please… help me."
Her gnarled hands had clutched mine, trembling with desperation.
I was just starting out back then. My mentor warned me to turn her away. But something in her voice—the raw, quiet agony—made me stay.
"She has no money. At her age, her family will fight this tooth and nail."
I took the case anyway. And sure enough, the backlash was brutal.
Her children stormed my office, smashing furniture, screaming that I'd swindled their mother. I hadn't charged her a dime, but they stood outside for days, demanding I return the money I'd supposedly stolen.
In the end, the old woman gathered her documents and left.
She was illiterate. She didn't know how to build a case. All she had were blurry photos of her life with her husband—two pairs of chopsticks, two shoe racks, two separate bedrooms, two bowls set far apart on the table.
She didn't know how to record emotional abuse. She just cried into the camera, her voice breaking.
"His things are his. Mine are mine. It's been this way for decades. People only see me yelling, hitting him—they don't see the knives he slides between my ribs every day."
"Miss, please… My youngest daughter is studying abroad. When she returns, she'll pay you. Just help me now, okay?"
I agreed. But after her son dragged her out that day, she never came back.
Now, lying beside Sarah under the stars, the truth clicks into place.
"You're that daughter."
She nods. "Yeah. It's me."
My chest tightens. "Did she… did she ever get the divorce?"
Sarah exhales, her gaze fixed on the horizon like she's recounting someone else's tragedy.
"Mom killed herself. Everyone called her crazy—said she destroyed Dad. But I know the truth. He drained her life, drop by drop. I'll never forgive him."
Her voice wavers.
"I looked for you. I needed to thank you. Before she died, Mom told me about you—the lawyer who believed her. Who could've proved she wasn't insane."
Then, by some twist of fate, Sarah found me—a struggling single mom selling handmade crafts at a flea market.
A woman named Haley.
Word spread as we shared our story with others. More people need to recognize the hidden wounds of emotional abuse within families—that's why I decided to put it into words.
So here it is.
(The End)
End of The Ghost in My House Was Me Chapter 13. View all chapters or return to The Ghost in My House Was Me book page.