The first thing Wren ever apologized for was being hungry.

Two days later, Corinne’s remaining belongings were packed into twenty cardboard boxes and loaded onto a moving van bound for her sister’s address in central Ohio.

I didn't watch it leave. I was out in the garage with Wren, teaching her how to hold a wrench properly while we tightened the loose training wheel on her pink bicycle.

"Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey," I chanted, guiding her small hand around the metal bolt.

"Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey!" she repeated, her tongue poking out in concentration. The bolt clicked securely into place. She spun the training wheel with her hand, grinning ear to ear. "I fixed it!"

"You sure did, master mechanic," I laughed, lifting her up and spinning her around in the air until she squealed with delight.

Later that evening, after Wren was tucked into bed with her favorite storybook, my phone buzzed with an email from Evelyn. It was the final, signed settlement agreement. Corinne had signed it in her sister’s kitchen in Columbus, witnessed by a local notary public.

The digital signature was shaky, smeared slightly across the screen—the mark of a woman who had realized too late that cruelty always comes due.