Now: 

I used to be afraid of becoming an old lady. Now? I’ve noticed it has its perks.

I can garden all day. My daughter visits me often. Right now, I’m standing in the sun, deciding whether to plant roses. Life is good.

Roses flourish in sunlight. But the spot I’m looking at—the bright, square patch near the fence—is already taken.

A Rafflesia arnoldii grows there. Rare, beautiful, and supposedly extinct. I chose it carefully with a purpose in mind. Because no one ever digs where something rare is planted.

It’s been eight years. The case should be closed. They stopped looking for him. For me. I have never heard the cops ringing on my doorbell.

I press my spade into the soil, just lightly. Then I stop. Not because of the flower. Not even because of the memory. But because, even now, I know: I can't take this risk for a couple of roses.

Under that soil lies a rapist, a murderer, and the man who almost killed my daughter.

I killed him. I buried him. And no—I don’t feel guilty.

I’m proud.