Chapter 13
Rebecca became part of the family-support council.
Not because trauma automatically qualifies someone.
Because she understood exactly where the old system failed.
She insisted on one rule.
“No support tied to access.”
Simple.
If Cross helped a widow, nobody earned information about her friends.
If Cross paid medical bills, nobody gained authority over her children.
If someone received housing, loyalty was not rent.
Several old captains hated it.
One said:
“Then what does Cross get?”
Rebecca answered before I could.
“Not everything has to be a transaction.”
He laughed.
She did not.
Good.
I backed her.
Support became transparent.
Families knew what they were entitled to.
No Walter deciding monthly whether someone had been “grateful.”
No secret reductions.
No child placements without direct parental agreement and independent review by more than one person.
Again.
Not glamorous.
Useful.
Molly slowly recovered.
She visited sometimes.
Never slept at the estate.
Her choice.
The first time she saw the pavilion cupboard, she stopped.
Rebecca reached for her.
Then stopped herself.
“Want to leave?”
Molly shook her head.
She walked inside.
Looked at the scratches.
Touched M.M.C.
Her initials.
Molly Marie Crane.
There.
Mystery solved fully.
Then she read:
DON’T PICK ME AGAIN.
Her face changed.
“I wrote that.”
Rebecca cried quietly.
Molly looked at me.
“Can I paint over it?”
I thought.
Then:
“It’s yours.”
She picked blue paint.
Covered the words.
Not perfectly.
The scratches remained beneath the color.
History under choice.
Better than preservation for adults.
Then she painted a star beside them.
Same as her shoes.
The cupboard stopped belonging to Walter.
May you like
Not completely.
But enough.
