Over the next few weeks, I got updates. The legal system moved slowly, but reality didn’t. My parents were facing serious charges. Their lawyer negotiated a plea deal to avoid jail time, but it came with restitution—full restitution—for the homeowner.
Forty thousand in damage, plus legal fees, plus court costs. It climbed close to sixty thousand total.
A friend from back home, Caitlyn, called me with the rest of the story like she was delivering gossip, except her voice kept catching, like even she couldn’t believe it.
“Lara,” she said, “they had to sell their house.”
I sat down at my kitchen table—Julian’s table, technically—and felt something sharp twist in my chest.
“They said it was the only house they had,” I murmured.
“I know,” Caitlyn said. “That’s the irony. They couldn’t afford the restitution any other way. So they sold it. And here’s the kicker—after they paid everything for the court and the homeowner, they gave the remaining money to Clara.”
My throat tightened.
“They did what they demanded you do,” Caitlyn said quietly. “But with their own house.”