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Laying back in a deep warm bubble bath, a glass of crisp white wine perched nearby, stars twinkling through the skylight above, and the french doors open onto private patio with a fire in crackling in the firepit, carrying the smell of oak. Above the fence enclosing the patio top most branches of the nearby trees can be seen gently swaying in light night breeze.
As she lays back and closes her eyes, her mind drifts back to her time on the run, the time in tent, with the boys. The hurt when he left. They anger when he returned, the presumption, the work to support through grief, to forgive and the betrayal that somehow seemed inevitable but still stung.
A different boy. A longer redemption and forgiveness arc. Who understood the numbness and the tears. While raised in a different world had a surprisingly large number of things in common.
The pressure of living up to parents expectations, the pleasure of learning, polyglot. A fire within relit at being challenged academicly.
An innocent touch, a kiss of greeting, a supportive hug. Gentle hands healing self inflicted wounds. And smiled to herself.