Chapter 9 - Healing Wounds
The aftermath of that day swept away any lingering doubts about Leo's future.
Greg was denied bail permanently. With the assault on Sarah, the attempted murder charge on me, and the mountain of evidence regarding the child abuse, he took a plea deal to avoid trial. He was sentenced to twenty-five years in a maximum-security state penitentiary without the possibility of parole.
Diane completed her stint in rehab but surrendered her parental rights voluntarily. She realized, in a moment of tragic clarity, that the best way she could love her son was to let him go somewhere he could heal.
Healing, however, is never a straight line.
For the first few months, Leo struggled. The nerve damage in his cheek healed, leaving only a faint, silver scar that looked like a crescent moon, but the invisible scars were much deeper. He had nightmares. He would hoard food in his pockets, terrified that the next meal might never come. Whenever it rained heavily, he would retreat to his closet, seeking a small, enclosed space that he could control.
But we worked through it. We went to intensive trauma therapy twice a week. We established routines. Every morning, we made pancakes together. Every evening, we walked Barnaby on the beach, letting the cold Oregon surf wash over our feet.
I learned that Leo loved to draw. I bought him sketchbooks, and he began to pour his feelings onto the pages. At first, the drawings were dark—spiders, dark rooms, angry monsters. But slowly, the colors shifted. He started drawing the ocean, the dog, and sometimes, he drew us.
One evening, about six months into his stay, we were sitting on the porch watching the sunset.
"Dr. Thomas?" Leo asked quietly.
"You can just call me Matthew, you know," I replied with a smile. "Or Matt. 'Dr. Thomas' makes me feel like I'm about to give someone a shot."
He smiled, a genuine, easy smile that reached his eyes. "Okay. Matt." He paused, swinging his legs back and forth. "Are you going to send me away when I'm fixed?"
My heart squeezed. I knelt down in front of him, taking both of his small hands in mine.
"Leo, you are not a broken machine. You don't need to be 'fixed.' You just needed to be safe," I said firmly, making sure he was looking right into my eyes. "And to answer your question: No. I am never sending you away. In fact, I spoke with Brenda yesterday. If you want it... I want to adopt you. I want to be your dad forever."
Leo stared at me. The walls he had built, the emotional armor he had worn since that rainy night in the ER, finally, completely shattered.
May you like
He threw his arms around my neck and cried. Not the silent, terrified tears of a victim, but the loud, healing sobs of a child who finally knows he is home.
"I want that," he cried into my shoulder. "I want that."
