The Invisible Woman

The palm of his hand cracks against my cheek. Sharp, hot, fast. My head snaps to the side. I taste copper. Blood pools in my mouth where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek. I stand there frozen, one hand rising slowly to touch my burning face. The kitchen spins. Smoke from Sloan’s cigarette curls between us like a ghost.

My son just hit me. Deacon, my boy. The child I raised alone in a cramped apartment in Columbus. The boy I worked double shifts for while his father drank himself into an early grave. The boy whose college tuition I paid with money saved in coffee cans hidden in my closet. That boy just struck his own mother across the face.

“Maybe now you’ll learn to keep quiet,” he says. His voice is flat. Cold. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m trash he found on his kitchen floor.

I can’t speak. Can’t move. My lungs burn, my chest tightens. I’d only asked one thing—because the doctor said my lungs are dying, because emphysema doesn’t care that it’s her house, her rules, her expensive cigarettes that cost more than my disability check.

Sloan laughs. Not a big laugh, just a quiet, satisfied sound. A smirk curls her lips as she takes another drag. Her yoga pants probably cost what I used to make in a week at the factory. Her ponytail sits perfect on her head. Not a hair out of place. Not a care in the world.

Deacon turns away from me, walks to her, kisses her forehead like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just slap his seventy-three-year-old mother hard enough to make her bleed.

“Dinner out tonight?” he asks.

“Perfect,” Sloan purrs. She stubs out her cigarette on a plate. A plate I washed this morning. My hands still smell like dish soap.

They leave fifteen minutes later. Deacon’s arm wraps around Sloan’s waist. Her laughter floats back through the open door. I hear their car start. The engine purrs. They drive away in their Mercedes, the one that cost more than I earned in five years.

The house goes silent except for my breathing. Ragged, painful. Each inhale feels like swallowing broken glass.

I walk to the guest room. No, not my room. Their guest room. The one decorated in whites and grays, cold, sterile, like a hospital waiting room where people go to die. I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress is too soft, too expensive. I’ve never been comfortable here. Not in six months.

My phone sits on the nightstand next to the photograph. Deacon at his high school graduation. His smile so proud. My arm around his shoulders. That was real, wasn’t it? That love existed once, didn’t it?

My hand shakes as I pick up the phone. My cheek throbs. I can feel it swelling. Tomorrow there will be a bruise, a handprint, evidence. I scroll through my contacts, names I haven’t called in years. People who owe me favors. People who remember when I was strong. When I had power. When I wasn’t invisible.

My finger hovers over the first name. Marcus Chen. I helped him twenty years ago when his wife left. When he was drowning, when he needed someone to believe in him. Now he’s one of the top elder abuse attorneys in Ohio.

I press call. He answers on the second ring.

“Loretta? Is that you?”

My voice comes out broken. Weak. “Marcus… I need help.”

“What happened?”

I tell him. Not everything. Just enough. The slap, the smoking, the six months of humiliation, the money they’ve taken from me—$400 a month in household expenses when my disability check is only $1,100.

Marcus’s voice goes hard. Steel cold. “Don’t move anything. Don’t change anything. We’re building a case.”

I make two more calls. Rhonda Washington, childhood friend, investigative journalist. Now, she owes me for the year I took care of her dying mother while she finished college. Then Vincent Torres, Deacon’s old college roommate, the boy I practically raised alongside my own son, the one who still calls me “Mama Loretta.” He became a forensic accountant, specializes in financial abuse cases.

By the time I hang up the third call, I hear their car pulling into the driveway. Sloan’s laughter echoes through the garage. Deacon’s voice rumbles. They’re happy, relaxed, full of wine and good food.

I look at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. The handprint on my cheek glows red, angry, clear. I smile.

Let them laugh tonight. Let them think I’m weak. Let them think I’m broken. Tomorrow, everything changes.

Chapter 1: The Sacrifice

I was seventeen when I met Deacon’s father. Jimmy Patterson, handsome in that dangerous way that young girls mistake for excitement. He worked construction, drank beer with his buddies after every shift. Promised me the world with a smile that made my knees weak.

I got pregnant three months after we married. Jimmy celebrated by getting drunk again. Deacon was born on a Tuesday in March. 7lbs 4oz. Perfect. Screaming alive. Jimmy showed up to the hospital six hours late, smelling like whiskey and excuses.

We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the east side of Columbus. The walls were thin. The neighbors fought every night. Sirens wailed past our windows. But it was home. It was ours.

I got a job at Morrison Textile Factory when Deacon turned six months old. Second shift. Jimmy promised he’d watch the baby. Most nights I came home to find Deacon crying in his crib—diaper full, bottle empty—Jimmy passed out on the couch with the TV blaring.

I worked forty hours a week, sometimes fifty, sometimes sixty when they offered overtime. My feet swelled in my work boots. My hands cracked and bled from the chemicals. My lungs filled with cotton fibers and secondhand smoke from three hundred workers lighting up during breaks.

But I had a coffee can hidden in the back of my closet, behind my winter coats. Behind the boxes of Deacon’s baby clothes I couldn’t throw away. Every paycheck I’d put $20 in that can. Sometimes $10 if money was tight. Sometimes $5 if Jimmy’s drinking got worse.

Jimmy died when Deacon was twelve. Liver failure. The doctor said it was impressive he lasted that long. I didn’t cry at the funeral. Neither did Deacon. We just stood there in our borrowed black clothes, watching them lower a man we barely knew into the ground.

Life got easier after that. Quieter. No more yelling. No more broken promises. No more lies. I picked up extra shifts, worked weekends, holidays. Anytime they needed someone, I said yes. The coffee can filled faster. One can became two. Two became three.

Deacon played basketball in high school. Point guard. Fast, smart, good enough to dream about college scholarships. I went to every game, sat in the bleachers with my thermos of coffee and my aching feet. Cheered until my voice went hoarse. The scholarship didn’t come. His grades were good, but not great. His game was strong, but not strong enough.

I went home after his final game, pulled out the coffee cans, counted the money. $17,000. Seventeen years of sacrifice, of skipped meals, of worn-out shoes, of winters without heat because I’d rather save the money. I paid for his college—all four years. Tuition, books, housing, everything.

Deacon graduated with a degree in finance, got a job at a big firm in Columbus, started wearing suits, driving a nice car, dating women with college degrees and perfect teeth. He met Sloan at a pharmaceutical conference. She sold medical devices to hospitals. Made six figures. Drove a BMW. Had an apartment downtown with a view.

They got married two years later. I wore a dress from Goodwill. Sat in the third row. Smiled for pictures. They bought a house in the suburbs. Three-car garage, granite countertops, a lawn that someone else mowed. They visited me twice a year—Christmas, my birthday—like clockwork, like obligation. I told myself it was enough. He was busy, important, successful. I’d done my job. Raised him right. Gave him a future.

Then came the doctor’s appointment that changed everything.

Chapter 2: The Diagnosis

The cough started six months before I called Deacon for help. Just a small thing at first, a tickle in my throat. Then it got worse. Deeper. Wet. I’d cough until I couldn’t breathe, until black spots danced in my vision, until I thought I might die right there on my apartment floor.

The doctor was young, too young. She had kind eyes, though. Sad eyes.

“Emphysema,” she said. The word hung in the air between us like smoke. “Your lungs are deteriorating. The tissue is damaged beyond repair.”

“But I never smoked,” I said. My voice sounded small, confused.

“Secondhand smoke. Environmental exposure. You said you worked in a textile factory for thirty years?”

I nodded.

“The cotton fibers, the chemicals, the cigarette smoke from other workers. Your lungs have been under assault for decades.”

She talked about treatments, inhalers, breathing exercises, oxygen tanks. Eventually, she used words like chronic and progressive. She didn’t use the word curable.

The treatments were expensive. My insurance covered some, not enough. My savings were gone. Used up. Given to Deacon for his education, for his future. I couldn’t work anymore. The factory let me go. Disability checks started coming. $1,100 a month. My rent was $700. Utilities, another $150. Medicine, another $200. The math didn’t work. The numbers didn’t add up.

I tried. God, I tried. I ate one meal a day. Skipped medications sometimes. Sat in the dark to save electricity. But my landlord wanted his money. The utility company didn’t care about my lungs. The pharmacy wouldn’t fill prescriptions without payment.

I lasted three months. Then I called Deacon.

The phone felt heavy in my hand. Shame burned in my chest, hotter than any cough.

“I need help,” I said.

Silence on the other end. Long enough that I thought he’d hung up. “What kind of help?” His voice was careful, guarded.

“I can’t afford my apartment anymore. The doctor says I need treatments. I was wondering…” I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t force the words out.

“You want to move in with us?” Not a question. A statement. Flat, heavy.

“Just temporarily. Until I figure something out.”

More silence. “Let me talk to Sloan.”

He called back three hours later. “Okay. You can stay in the guest room.”

Relief flooded through me. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll pay rent. I’ll help around the house. I won’t be any trouble.”

“We’ll talk about the details when you get here.” He hung up before I could say I love you.

Chapter 3: The Guest

I moved in on a Saturday in May. Everything I owned fit in two suitcases and three cardboard boxes. Deacon didn’t help me pack. Didn’t come to my apartment. Just gave me the address and said to be there by noon.

The house was beautiful. Magazine beautiful. The kind of house I used to walk past and dream about when Deacon was little. White siding, black shutters, a front porch with rocking chairs that looked like they’d never been sat in.

Sloan answered the door. She wore white jeans and a silk blouse. Her makeup was perfect. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Loretta. Come in.” She stepped aside. Didn’t offer to help with my suitcases.

The inside was even more impressive. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, everything white and gray and spotless. Like a museum. Like a place where people didn’t actually live.

“The guest room is upstairs, second door on the right.” Sloan gestured toward the staircase. “Deacon’s at the office. He’ll be home around six.”

I dragged my suitcases up the stairs. My lungs burned. My legs trembled. I had to stop twice to catch my breath. The guest room was decorated in whites and grays. A queen bed with too many pillows, a dresser, a nightstand, a single window that looked out over the backyard. Everything matched. Everything coordinated. Nothing felt warm.

I unpacked my suitcases. My clothes looked shabby in the expensive dresser. Worn, faded, poor.

Sloan appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “We need to go over some house rules,” she said.

I turned to face her. “Of course.”

“The main bathroom downstairs is ours. You can use the half bath by the laundry room. Don’t come downstairs before 9:00 on weekends—we like our privacy. Don’t touch the thermostat. And we’ll need $400 a month for household expenses.”

$400. More than a third of my disability check.

“That seems like a lot,” I said carefully.

Her smile went sharp. “You’re using our water, our electricity, our space. $400 is more than fair.”

What could I say? I had nowhere else to go. “Okay. Great.”

“First payment is due Monday.” She pushed off the doorframe. “Oh, and try to keep your medical equipment in your room. The nebulizer and stuff. It’s depressing to look at.”

She walked away. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway. I sat on the edge of the bed. The photograph of Deacon at graduation sat on the nightstand. I’d placed it there first thing—before my clothes, before my medications. That boy in the picture looked so happy, so proud, so loved.

I didn’t recognize him anymore.

Chapter 4: The Build Up

The first month in their house, I tried to make myself useful. I cooked dinner three nights a week, cleaned the bathrooms, did laundry, vacuumed the spotless floors. Sloan complained about everything. The food was too salty, too bland, too ethnic. I used the wrong cleaning products, left streaks on the mirrors, folded the towels wrong.

I started doing less, staying in my room more, making myself invisible.

Deacon came home every night at 6:30. He’d kiss Sloan, pour bourbon, disappear into his office. Sometimes I’d try to talk to him—tell him about my day, about the book I was reading, about the cardinals I watched from my window.

“That’s nice, Mom,” he’d say. His eyes never left his phone. His voice carried no interest, no warmth, no love.

I stopped trying.

Sloan got worse. She’d wrinkle her nose when I entered a room. Make comments about “old people smells,” about feeling cramped in her own house, about how they “never used to have to worry about someone overhearing their private conversations.”

I started showering twice a day, three times some days. Washing my clothes constantly. Using so much soap my hands cracked and bled. My water bill—which I paid them for—went up. Sloan complained about that too.

They went out often. Fancy restaurants, wine tastings, weekend trips to Chicago, New York, Miami. I stayed home, ate microwave dinners alone in my room, tried not to exist too loudly.

I had physical therapy appointments twice a week. Exercises to keep my lungs working, to keep me mobile, to keep me alive a little longer. The first time I asked Deacon for a ride, he sighed long and heavy, like I’d asked him to donate a kidney.

“I have meetings all day, Mom.”

“It’s just twenty minutes there and back. The appointment is at 2:00.”

“Fine. But you need to be ready at 1:30 exactly. I can’t be late.”

He drove me in silence. The radio played soft jazz. His jaw was tight. His hands gripped the steering wheel like he was angry at it. At the physical therapy office, he stayed in the car, kept the engine running. When I came out forty-five minutes later, sweating and exhausted, he didn’t ask how it went.

The next appointment, he texted at the last minute. Can’t make it. Take an Uber.

I didn’t have money for an Uber. I’d already given them $400 that month, plus another $50 for groceries I’d bought, plus my portion of the water bill Sloan said was “too high.”

I took the bus instead. It came late. I stood at the stop for twenty minutes. My chest ached. My legs trembled. When the bus finally arrived, all the seats were full. I stood for forty minutes holding a pole, trying to breathe, trying not to cough, trying not to pass out.

The therapy session was hard. Harder than usual. My muscles wouldn’t cooperate. My lungs wouldn’t expand. The therapist kept asking if I was okay. I lied and said yes.

The bus ride home was worse. Rush hour. Packed. Hot. Someone’s cologne made my throat close up. I coughed until I tasted blood.

By the time I got back to the house, it was 6:00. I could barely walk. My hands shook as I unlocked the door. My inhaler was upstairs in my room. I needed it. Needed air. Needed to breathe.

I made it to the kitchen. Leaned against the counter. Fumbled with my inhaler. Two puffs. Wait. Two more. My chest loosened slowly. So slowly.

That’s when Sloan walked in.

Chapter 5: The Confrontation

She wore yoga pants, a designer tank top, her hair in a perfect ponytail. She looked fresh, rested, beautiful. She went straight to the cabinet, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one right there in the kitchen.

The smoke hit me like a fist to the chest. My throat closed. I started coughing. Deep, wet, painful. The kind that makes your ribs feel like they’re breaking, like they’re being pulled apart by invisible hands.

“Sloan,” my voice came out as a whisper. A plea. “Could you… could you please not smoke in here? My lungs…”

She took another drag. Blew smoke in my direction. The cloud drifted toward me, wrapped around my face. “It’s my house, Loretta. I’ll smoke where I want.”

My chest was on fire. I couldn’t get air. Each attempt to breathe felt like drowning, like being held underwater.

“Please,” I begged. Hated myself for begging. “I can’t… I can’t breathe.”

“Then go to your room.” She flicked ash into the sink. My clean sink. The one I’d scrubbed that morning.

I stood up. I held onto the counter with both hands. “Just for a minute… please.”

The front door opened. Deacon walked in, loosening his tie, his briefcase in one hand. He took in the scene. Me hunched over the counter. Sloan with her cigarette. Smoke hanging in the air like a curse.

“What’s going on?” His voice was tired. Annoyed.

Sloan gestured at me with her cigarette like I was the problem. Like I was the one being unreasonable. “Your mother is complaining again. I just—”

A cough cut me off. Deep and rattling. “I just asked if she could smoke outside… because my lungs…”

“Shut up!”

The words cracked through the kitchen like a gunshot. I froze. Deacon had never spoken to me like that. Never. Not even as a teenager. Not even when his father died and everything fell apart.

He crossed the space between us in three strides. His face was red, twisted, ugly with rage.

“You stink worse than the smoke! Every day it’s something with you. You’re always sick, always needing something, always making problems—”

“Deacon—”

His palm connected with my cheek before I could finish.

Chapter 6: The Cavalry

At exactly 9:00, the doorbell rings.

Deacon looks up, frowns. “Are you expecting someone?”

I set down my coffee cup. “Yes.”

Sloan’s head snaps toward me. “What?”

The doorbell rings again. I stand. Walk to the door. My legs feel strong. Stronger than they have in months. I open the door.

Marcus Chen stands on the porch, tall, professional, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Deacon’s. He carries a leather briefcase. His expression is granite.

“Good morning, Loretta.” His voice is gentle when he speaks to me. Then he looks past me into the house. His voice changes, goes cold, hard. “Mr. Patterson. Mrs. Patterson. My name is Marcus Chen. I’m an attorney specializing in elder abuse cases. May I come in?”

Deacon appears behind me. His face has gone pale.

“I called for help,” my voice doesn’t waver. “What you did yesterday was assault. What you’ve been doing for six months is financial exploitation and emotional abuse.”

Marcus steps inside. Uninvited. Unwanted. He sets his briefcase on the entry table, opens it, pulls out a folder.

“These are preliminary documents,” he says. “A cease and desist. Official notice that we’re filing an elder abuse investigation with the state. And restraining order paperwork, which we’ll be filing this afternoon.”

Sloan rushes into the hallway. “This is insane!” she says. “We let her live here! We’ve been taking care of her!”

Marcus pulls out another document, slides it across the table. “These are bank records showing that Mrs. Patterson has been paying you $400 per month in household expenses from a disability check of $1,100. Leaving her with $700 for all other expenses.”

“We have a nice house,” Sloan snaps. “It costs money to maintain. She should contribute.”

“The going rate for a room rental in Columbus, Ohio is approximately $500 per month,” Marcus says. His voice never rises, never wavers. “That typically includes utilities. You’ve been charging her $400 for the room, plus additional fees. Do you have receipts?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think so.” Marcus pulls out more papers. “I also have photographs. Would you like to see them?”

He spreads photos across the table. The guest room, the mold, the broken window lock, my medications, receipts. Then the photo from this morning: my face, the handprint, purple and swollen and undeniable.

Deacon’s face goes white. “Mom… we can fix this,” he says. His voice cracks. “We can talk about this.”

“We can, Mr. Patterson. I strongly advise you not to speak.” Marcus gathers the photos. “Anything you say can and will be used in court.”

The doorbell rings again. Marcus smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “That would be the other members of our team.”

I walk to the door, open it. Rhonda Washington stands there with a camera bag and a man I don’t recognize. Behind them, a woman in a county uniform holds a clipboard.

“Adult Protective Services,” the woman says. “We received a report of potential elder abuse and neglect at this address. I’m here to conduct an investigation.”

Sloan makes a sound—high-pitched, almost a scream. “This is harassment! We’ll sue! We’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Marcus’s voice cuts through her panic like a knife. “Because if you interfere with an APS investigation, that’s another criminal charge. If you try to intimidate witnesses, that’s another criminal charge.”

Another car pulls up outside. I know who it is before I see him. Vincent Torres walks through the still-open front door. He sees me in the living room. His expression crumbles.

“Mama Loretta.” His voice breaks on my name. He crosses the room in three strides, kneels down next to my chair, takes my hand. His thumb brushes over my swollen cheek. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I should have checked on you.”

He stands, turns toward the kitchen. His voice goes cold. “Deacon. Living room. Now.”

Deacon walks in like a man approaching his own execution. Vincent stands between us, protective. The way Deacon should have been. The way a son should be.

“I pulled your financials,” Vincent says. “Want to tell your mother again how you can’t afford to help her?”

He opens his own briefcase, pulls out documents, spreads them on the coffee table. “Investment portfolio, $1.3 million. Vacation house in Sedona, $450,000. Your annual income, $285,000. Sloan’s income, $310,000.”

He looks at Deacon. Really looks at him. “You have $600,000 in liquid assets. Your monthly expenses total $9,000. And you were charging your dying mother $400 a month to sleep in your guest room.”

“We have expenses,” Sloan’s voice comes from the kitchen. “We have a lifestyle to maintain.”

Vincent doesn’t even look at her. “You spent $4,000 at restaurants last month. $3,000 on clothing. $2,000 at the spa. And you charged Mama Loretta $50 for groceries she supposedly ate. Want to see the receipts? Because I have them all.”

Deacon sits down, puts his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

“You hit her,” Vincent’s voice shakes. “You hit the woman who raised you, who worked herself into emphysema so you could go to college. You hit her because she asked your wife not to smoke in the house.”

“I was stressed! We were both stressed! Mom was always complaining, always needing something!”

“Always. She needed oxygen, Deacon!” Vincent’s voice rises. “She needed medication. She needed basic human dignity. And you couldn’t give her that. You made $600,000 last year and you couldn’t give your mother dignity.”

Silence.

The APS investigator stands. “I’ve seen enough. Mrs. Patterson, you cannot legally remain in this home. It’s unsafe. Do you have somewhere else you can go?”

“She can stay with me,” Marcus says. “My wife and I have a guest house. It’s empty. It’s yours for as long as you need it, Loretta.”

“I’ll run the story tomorrow,” Rhonda says. “Front page with photos. Unless…” She looks at Deacon. “Unless you want to make a public statement. Take responsibility. Make restitution.”

Deacon looks up. His eyes are red.

“Everything,” Marcus’s voice is steel. “Every penny she paid you, plus her medical bills, plus compensation for emotional distress, plus a public apology. And a legally binding agreement that you will never contact her again unless she initiates it. And if you refuse, we file criminal charges. Assault, financial exploitation, elder abuse. All of it.”

Chapter 7: The Settlement

Three days later, I sit in Marcus Chen’s office.

“They’ve agreed to settle,” Marcus says. He slides a document across his desk. “Full return of all household expenses. Payment of all medical bills, past and future. Public apology. Permanent restraining order.”

He turns to another page. “And this. They have to fund scholarships for adult children of elderly parents. $5,000 per year for the next ten years. And mandatory elder care sensitivity training as part of their professional license renewals.”

I read the words once, twice, three times. “The scholarships,” I say slowly. “That wasn’t my idea.”

“It was mine,” Marcus says. “But you have to approve it.”

I think about other women. Other mothers. Other people who might end up in that cold guest room.

“Yes,” I say. “I approve.”

“Good. Because there’s more. Sloan’s pharmaceutical sales license is under review. The board is investigating. And Deacon… his firm asked him to resign.”

I should feel happy. Vindicated. But I just feel tired.

“Do I have to see them again?” I ask.

“No. Not unless you want to.”

I stand. Marcus walks me to the door. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything. For remembering.”

“I never forgot, Loretta. Twenty years ago… you saved my life. You believed in me.” His voice gets thick. “This isn’t even close to repaying that debt.”

He hugs me. Careful, gentle, like I’m precious. Maybe I am.

Chapter 8: The Aftermath

The apartment Marcus’s wife helped me find is small. But it’s mine. The windows let in sunlight. I can breathe here.

Vincent helped me move in. Rhonda visits twice a week.

“You started something,” she says. “By speaking up, by fighting back, you gave other people permission to do the same.”

My lungs are still dying. That hasn’t changed. But now I can afford my medications. My breathing is better.

Three weeks since the slap. The doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone. I check the peephole.

Deacon.

I open the door. Just a crack. The chain lock still engaged.

“Mom.” His voice breaks. “Please. I just need five minutes.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know. But I had to.” He stops. Swallows hard. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I say nothing.

“I was wrong about everything. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I needed you to know.” He holds out an envelope. “This is a check for $50,000. It’s what I have liquid right now. I want you to have it.”

“I don’t want your money, Deacon.”

“Then what do you want?”

I think about that question. “I want you to be better. I want you to take that sensitivity training seriously. I want you to look at every elderly person you meet and remember how you treated me. And I want you to do better.”

Tears stream down his face. “I will. I promise.”

“You can’t make it right,” I say. “You can only move forward. And you can only do that without me.”

He flinches. “I know,” he whispers. “I know I lost you.”

He sets the envelope on the ground outside my door. “If you change your mind… I’m here.”

He turns to leave, stops, looks back at me one last time. “I love you, Mom. I know I destroyed everything, but I love you.”

“I believe you,” I say. “But love isn’t enough. Love without respect is nothing. Love without care is abuse. And I won’t accept that anymore.”

He nods, walks away.

I close the door, lock it, slide the chain back in place. The envelope sits on my doorstep. I leave it there. When Vincent visits tomorrow, I’ll have him give it back or donate it. I don’t care.

I don’t need Deacon’s money. I don’t need Deacon’s apology. I don’t need Deacon.

I have myself. I have friends who chose me. I have dignity. I have worth. I have enough.