Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 29: Full Circle
SLOANE
Twenty-five years since the trial.
Fifty-five years old.
Quarter century of freedom.
Owen and I are in Peru.
Machu Picchu.
Standing at the top of the world.
Looking out over ancient ruins.
Breathing thin air.
Feeling alive.
“Can you believe we’re actually here?” I ask.
“Took us long enough.”
“We had time.”
“We made time.”
“Best decision ever.”
We’ve been traveling for three years straight.
Every continent except Antarctica.
Living out of suitcases.
Experiencing everything.
Making up for lost time.
But I’m getting tired.
Ready to go home.
Ready to settle.
Not forever. Just for a while.
“I think I’m ready to go back to Oregon,” I tell Owen that night.
“Me too.”
“Really? You’re not having fun?”
“I’m having the time of my life. But home sounds good. Roots sound good.”
“We’re getting old.”
“We’re getting wise.”
We fly home two weeks later.
Back to Oregon.
Back to our house by the ocean.
Back to peace.
The house feels different.
Smaller. Quieter.
But still home.
Always home.
Heath throws us a welcome-back party.
Small. Intimate.
Just family and close friends.
“You look tan,” Jade says via video call from California.
“You look jealous.”
“Extremely.”
“Come visit.”
“I will. Soon.”
I settle back into routine.
Morning beach walks.
Afternoon painting.
Evening cooking.
Reading before bed.
Simple. Perfect. Mine.
I get a call from a young woman.
Graduate student. UCLA.
“Ms. Mitchell? I’m writing my dissertation on the Mitchell Act. Could I interview you?”
“I’m retired from advocacy—”
“I know. But this is academic. Historical. Your story is part of legal history now.”
Legal history.
Twenty-five years ago, I was just trying to survive.
Now I’m legal history.
“Okay. One interview. Then I’m really done.”
“Thank you so much!”
The interview happens over Zoom.
She’s nervous. Prepared. Respectful.
“How does it feel knowing you changed the law?”
“Surreal. I was just trying to get justice for myself. I didn’t know it would become this.”
“You’ve helped hundreds of survivors. Changed thirty-two state laws. Created legal precedent.”
“I know. It’s overwhelming when I think about it. So mostly I don’t.”
“Do you ever regret going public?”
“No. Never. It was hard. Brutal, even. But necessary.”
“What would you tell current survivors?”
“Speak up. Fight back. You’re not alone. And you’re stronger than you think.”
After the interview, I feel nostalgic.
Not for the trauma.
Never for that.
But for the purpose.
The fighting.
The winning.
“Do you miss it?” Owen asks. “The advocacy?”
“Sometimes. Not the pain. But the purpose. The helping.”
“You can still help. Just differently.”
“How?”
“Mentor young lawyers. Donate. Volunteer. You don’t have to be public to make a difference.”
He’s right.
I start volunteering at a local women’s shelter.
Once a week.
Not as a survivor.
Not as an advocate.
Just as Sloane.
Woman who listens.
Woman who understands.
Woman who survived.
I meet a young woman. Twenty-three. Escaping domestic violence.
“How did you do it?” she asks. “How did you survive?”
“One day at a time. One choice at a time. One breath at a time.”
“It feels impossible.”
“It felt impossible for me too. But here I am. Twenty-five years later. Happy. Whole. Free.”
“Will I ever be happy again?”
“Yes. Different happy. Earned happy. But yes.”
She cries.
I hold her.
“You’ve got this.”
This is my new purpose.
Not public advocacy.
Not media interviews.
Just… showing up.
Being present.
Proving survival is possible.
Jade moves to Oregon.
Finally.
After years of talking about it.
She and Sarah buy a house twenty minutes away.
“We’re neighbors again!” she squeals.
“Just like we always wanted.”
“Took us thirty years.”
“Better late than never.”
We fall back into rhythm.
Weekly dinners. Beach walks. Art galleries.
Best friends. Sisters. Survivors.
“I’m proud of us,” Jade says one day.
“For what?”
“For surviving. For thriving. For not letting them win.”
“We didn’t just not let them win. We destroyed them.”
“Damn right we did.”
I get a call from the documentary filmmaker.
Ten-year anniversary of “Surviving Deception.”
“We’re doing a follow-up. ‘Where Are They Now?’ Would you participate?”
“No.”
“Not even a short segment?”
“I’m exactly where I should be. Living quietly. That’s the whole point. I survived so I could live normally. Not so I could be famous for surviving.”
“That’s actually a perfect quote. Can I use it?”
“Sure. But that’s all you get.”
The follow-up airs without me.
Just updates from other survivors.
Cassidy has her PhD now. Teaching psychology.
Amanda runs a survivors’ support group.
Others have moved on, living private lives.
We all survived.
We all thrived.
In our own ways.
Twenty-five years since the trial.
I barely remember what Ethan looked like.
Can’t picture Everett’s face without looking at old photos.
They’ve faded.
Ghosts.
Less than ghosts.
Nothing.
“Do you think about them?” Owen asks one night.
“Rarely. And when I do, it’s clinical. Like remembering a bad dream.”
“No anger?”
“Not anymore. Anger takes energy. I’d rather spend it elsewhere.”
“On what?”
“On you. On art. On life. On literally anything else.”
I take up yoga.
Finally.
After years of Jade recommending it.
“Better late than never,” the instructor says when I tell her I’m a beginner at fifty-five.
“Story of my life.”
I’m flexible.
Stronger than I thought.
Capable of more than I imagined.
Yoga becomes meditation.
Meditation becomes healing.
Healing becomes peace.
Owen and I celebrate our twentieth anniversary.
Two decades married.
Twenty-five years together.
“Best decision I ever made,” I tell him.
“Marrying me?”
“Trusting you. Letting you in. Choosing you.”
“I choose you too. Every day.”
We renew our vows again.
Same beach.
Same spot.
Just us this time.
No officiant. No guests.
Just two people choosing each other.
Again.
Forever.
“Do you take Owen—”
“I do.”
“Do you take Sloane—”
“I do.”
We kiss.
Laugh.
Walk back to the house hand in hand.
Married. Again. Still. Always.
Life is good.
Not perfect.
I still have triggers occasionally.
Still have nightmares rarely.
Still have moments of fear.
But they’re fleeting.
Manageable.
Survivable.
I’m writing a second book.
Not about the twins.
About healing.
About life after trauma.
About choosing happiness.
“What’s it called?” Owen asks.
“‘After: A Survivor’s Guide to Living.'”
“Perfect.”
I’m sixty pages in.
It’s different from the first book.
Less about what happened.
More about what I did with it.
How I healed.
How anyone can heal.
I write a chapter about forgiveness.
Not forgiving them.
But forgiving myself.
For not seeing the signs.
For trusting the wrong people.
For taking so long to heal.
*”Forgiveness isn’t about them. It’s about you. It’s about releasing the hold they have on your peace. It’s about choosing yourself over your anger. Over your pain. Over your past.”*
I write a chapter about love after trauma.
About Owen.
About learning to trust again.
About choosing vulnerability even when it’s terrifying.
*”Love after trauma is different. It’s earned. It’s conscious. It’s brave. It’s choosing to believe in goodness even when you’ve seen the worst. It’s trusting someone with your broken pieces and letting them help you put them back together.”*
The book pours out of me.
Six months. Ninety thousand words.
Everything I learned.
Everything I survived.
Everything I want other survivors to know.
It’s published by a small press.
Same one as the first book.
Dedicated to: *”Everyone still fighting. You’re stronger than you know.”*
The response is overwhelming.
Thousands of messages.
From survivors. Therapists. Loved ones.
*”This book saved my life.”*
*”I’m sharing this with my clients.”*
*”Thank you for showing us hope.”*
I do one book tour.
Ten cities. Two weeks.
My last public appearance.
“After this, I’m really retiring,” I tell Owen.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I mean it this time.”
“Okay, love.”
The last stop is San Francisco.
Packed auditorium.
Hundreds of people.
I talk about healing. About hope. About life after.
“Your past doesn’t define you,” I tell them. “Your choices do. Choose healing. Choose yourself. Choose life.”
Standing ovation.
Tears everywhere.
Including mine.
After, a young woman approaches.
Early twenties. Shaking.
“I was assaulted by deception. Twin brothers. Your story saved me. The Mitchell Act convicted them. Thank you.”
I hug her.
“You saved yourself. You were brave enough to speak up. I’m proud of you.”
“Will I ever be okay?”
“Yes. Different okay. But yes. I promise.”
This is why I did all of it.
For moments like this.
For survivors like her.
For hope.
I fly home to Oregon.
To Owen.
To my life.
To my peace.
“I’m really done now,” I tell him.
“Good. Let’s just live.”
“Let’s just live.”
Twenty-five years since the trial.
Fifty-five years old.
Two books published.
Hundreds of lives changed.
Laws created.
Legacy secured.
But more importantly:
Happy.
Healed.
Whole.
I am not my trauma.
I am what I chose to do with it.
And I chose life.
END OF CHAPTER 29
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