Stacy used to have such a gentle laugh, one that sounded like running water. I’d do anything to hear it again—to hear her. But that laughter, like everything else, is gone now, leaving only silence.
I sit here on the steps leading up to the deck surrounding the front and sides of our cabin. The worn patches in the grass remind me of playing ball with Eddy and Megan. Every Saturday morning from when he was just five years old, Stacy would be holding Megan on her lap, rocking in the chair, laughing as she watched Eddy try to run the football past me to score a touchdown.
Megan was six when she decided that she wanted to join her older brother and me for a game; Eddy was eleven then. He looked at me, groaning with disappointment as I told her she could be on my team.
“Come on, Dad!” Eddy cried out, “If she’s playing, then we’ll have to take it easy; she’s just going to get hurt!”
“Oh, quit your groaning, and let’s play ball,” I teased back at him, chiding him a bit.
I bent down and whispered to Stacy, “Okay, here’s what we are going to do; I’m going to hand you the ball, then I want you to run right behind me, and I’ll block for you.”
“Okay!” she said with excitement, an expression of joy on her face that showed how happy she was getting to be a part of our Thanksgiving tradition.
* * *
Sitting on the steps, I shifted hesitantly so that I could look back to the window above the sink. For a moment, I expected Stacy to be there, her face glowing with laughter as she watched us play. The image came so vividly, so insistently, that it felt real – as if time had folded in on itself and she was still here with me.
But the window stares back at me, empty and lifeless. The reflection shows only the now overgrown grass and the memory of what once was. The laughter is gone, leaving only the hum of a world moving on without them.
* * *
The sharp snap of the screen door brings me back to reality. I turn to the door as I stand, brushing my hands down my black slacks and straightening my jacket. My sister Lauren steps out onto the deck; her expression is soft but weary, followed closely by her husband, my best friend of twenty years, Don.
“We should probably get going,” Lauren said to Don as they locked up the cabin before stepping down from the deck. Without another word, we move toward his SUV, the sound of our footsteps echoing faintly in the stillness of the yard. The silence continued as we settled into the car; not a word was spoken during the two-hour drive from the cabin to the courthouse.
* * *
“All rise,” the bailiff commands, “Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Reginald Sanson presiding.”
“You may be seated. Case number H-48327, State vs Samantha Collins, is now in session.” Judge Sanson announces, his tone measured and deliberate. “Defense, as I understand, you have entered a plea?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the defense attorney responds, rising from his seat.
“Prosecution, have you accepted the plea?”
“We are, Your Honor,” replies the Assistant District Attorney, her voice steady and confident.
The judge shifts his gaze to the defendant. “Defendant, please state your full name for the record.” Judge Sanson commands.
The young woman stands, her attorney standing with her, voice trembling. “Umm…My name is Samantha Linn Collins, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Collins,” Judge Sanson continues, “you have been charged with vehicular manslaughter with gross negligence; how do you plead?”
Samantha glances at her attorney, who gives her a slight nod of encouragement. I can see her hands tremble as she grips the defense table. “I…uhm…Your Honor, I plead guilty,” she says, her voice faltering but resolute.
A low murmur ripples through the courtroom, swelling into a roar of disbelief.
“Order in the court,” the judge commands, his voice firm as he strikes the gavel against the sound block, echoing through the chambers. Judge Sanson leans forward, his expression grave. “Ms. Collins, do you understand the gravity of your plea?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I understand,” Samantha replies, her voice breaking with sorrow. As her trembling voice echoed through the courtroom, I felt the weight of her words settle deep in my chest.
Lauren, sitting beside me, the warmth of her presence reminding me that we are not alone.
“Very well then,” the Judge continues, “the defense has submitted a request for expedited sentencing. Has the prosecution prepared recommendations?”
“We have, Your Honor.”
I glance over at Don and Lauren, searching for reassurance, a silent confirmation to take the next step forward—one for my peace of mind. I feel Don meeting my gaze, his expression steady and understanding, giving me the strength I needed to do what was next.
Sitting behind the prosecutor, I leaned forward, tapping the Assistant DA on her shoulder, and whispered my request to her. She looks back but not at me, looking past Don.
“Would you like to address the court?” she asks.
Confused as to why she would ask this question when I just made the same request. Looking over I see her, gripping the rail that separates our seats from the counsel tables.
“Your Honor, Mrs. Anderson would like to address the court.”
“Any objections from the defense?”
“No, Your Honor,” the defense replied.
Stacy stood, walking past me, she doesn’t notice me as she makes her way to the podium and the microphone.
Drawing in a breath, she is shaken, her chest rising and falling, steading herself. “Your Honor,” she begin, her voice low but thick with emotion, cracking on the words. “I lost everything that night: my best friend, my husband, my two kids lost their dad, our world forever changed.” Her voice caught on the last word, her breath hitching. Pausing to gather herself.
“All gone,” she whispered, the words trailing off like an echo in the still courtroom.
She gripped the podium tighter, her knuckles blanching as though trying to anchor herself against the tide of memories. A sharp exhale escaped her lips, she lifted my gaze to the judge, caught between sorrow and pain. When she was able to speak again, her voice was soft but steady. “In a preventable accident.”
“But I, we can’t move forward knowing another life will be lost. Carrying this anger—this pain—it’s unbearable. I’ve found forgiveness in my heart for her,” She said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, I’m dead, will not be able to see my kids grow up, can’t grow old with her, and she’s forgiven her?
Her voice falters for a moment before finishing, “This is something that Mike would want, something that he brought to our family, and something I hope the court can find, too.”
As Stacy’s words washed over the courtroom, something shifted inside me—like a door creaking open to a truth I wasn’t ready to face. Her trembling voice, her choice of words—it wasn’t just grief for her and the kids. It was grief for me.
I sat frozen, the weight of realization pressing down on me like a tidal wave. My breath hitched, though no one around me seemed to notice. How could they? I wasn’t really here.
Dead. The word echoed through my mind, sharp and unforgiving. I wasn’t going to walk back out of this courtroom. I wasn’t going to sit on the porch and feel the sun on my face. I wasn’t going to see Eddy grow into the man I knew he could be or watch Megan’s eyes light up when she accomplished something she once thought impossible.
I stared at Stacy as she spoke—stronger than I could ever have imagined—carrying the weight of everything we’d lost. My heart ached, not just for her pain but for the moments I wouldn’t be there to share, the laughter I’d never hear again, the love I could no longer give.
And yet, as she said those words—words of forgiveness, of grace—I felt something else stir in me. A deep, quiet understanding. This is what she needed. This is what she believed I would want. And maybe she was right. Maybe grace wasn’t just something you gave to others but something that allowed you to keep moving forward yourself.
For a moment, I reached for her hand, wanting to tell her it would be okay. But my fingers passed through the air, and I was left with the bittersweet truth: I could no longer hold them, but I could let them go.
As the courtroom murmured around me, I closed my eyes, holding onto the sound of Stacy’s voice, her courage, her love. Maybe this was what I had to do, too. Let go—not just of them, but of the anger and sorrow tethering me here. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t just an act of grace for others—it was a gift for me, too.
A hushed silence falls over the courtroom, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air. “Mrs. Anderson,” the judge began, known for his stern demeanor, his voice measured, “your words are not only courageous but deeply moving. While your willingness to extend forgiveness is remarkable. The law requires justice, and I feel that I must act accordingly.”
“Counsel, approach the bench,” the Honorable Judge Sanson states, needing to confirm the plea bargain in light of what just took place.
After a moment of discussion, the counsel returned to their stations as Judge Sanson then directed his attention to Samantha, his gaze steady.
“Ms. Collins, it is clear to the court that you are deeply remorseful for your actions, and while I take that into account, a serious tragedy has occurred because of your actions. However, in light of the plea bargain entered and in agreement with the prosecution and taking the victim’s family’s plea for leniency into consideration, I will impose a reduced sentence of 10 years with eligibility of parole after 7 years and 5 years probation.”
Samantha’s shoulders sank as she wiped away the tears that spilled down her cheeks. Her gaze shifted toward Stacy, lingering there, a silent plea for understanding mixed with the weight of her guilt. It wasn’t defiance or denial—it was remorse laid bare, raw and unguarded. For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
The judge struck his gavel. “This court is adjourned.”
As the murmurs of the audience began to rise, Samantha turned to Stacy, asking if she could have a word before being taken away. Her voice trembled as she said, “Thank you, but I…I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
I sat there, not understanding what was happening. Thinking that I had lost them, that they were gone from my life, not realizing that it was I who was gone. Wanting to hold her one more time, to wrap my arms around my kids one more.
She paused as she exited the seats before making their way down the isle, meeting her tearful gaze, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on everyone.
“You’ll carry this for the rest of your life—just like I will. But forgiveness…it’s the only way I can keep going.”
For the first time, I saw grace for what it truly was—not a fleeting moment or a passive choice, but an echo that ripples through everything it touches. Stacy’s strength, her courage to forgive, wasn’t just for Samantha—it was for our children, for herself, for the life that still lay ahead. And maybe…for me, too.
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