Because every headline reminded me of Maya.
Every legal filing contained her name.
Every hearing required me to revisit the worst weeks of my life.
People often imagine justice as a single dramatic moment.
A courtroom confession.
A handcuff clicking shut.
A villain finally admitting defeat.
The reality was slower.
Forms.
Appointments.
Medical bills.
Therapy sessions.
Nights when Maya woke crying.
Days when I couldn’t drive past her old school without shaking.
I began therapy too.
At first, I felt guilty doing anything for myself while Maya was recovering.
Then her counselor explained that supporting my own stability was part of supporting hers.
So I went.
I talked about the guilt.
About the warning signs.
About how Adrian had made me distrust my own instincts.
My therapist never excused the months of manipulation.
But she helped me understand how it had worked.
Adrian had not needed to control every thought I had.
