I understood.
I signed the papers on a Monday morning. Jean was in school. Roslin was in the waiting room. Beverly shook my hand, then hugged me, then cried, which was the first time I had ever seen her cry, and it cracked me open a little.
I was the owner of Arcadia Realty at 30 years old.
After Edwin Thibido left me at a bus stop with a baby and never looked back, I thought about him that day, just briefly.
And I smiled.
I had been running Arcadia for eleven months when the call came in—a commercial inquiry. A developer looking to purchase several properties in a Memphis neighborhood being targeted for revitalization.
Standard enough.
My agent, Tariq, handled the initial consultation and then knocked on my office door, looking mildly confused.
“The developer’s name is Thibido,” he said. “Edwin Thibido. He asked specifically for the brokerage owner.”
The room did not spin. My hands did not shake.
I had genuinely not known this was coming. But some deep, old, patient part of me had always suspected that Memphis would eventually put us in the same room.
“Tell him I’m available Thursday at two,” I said. “Conference room.”
Tariq nodded. “You know him?”
“I used to,” I said. “A long time ago.”
I spent Wednesday evening being very intentional.
I called Roslin. I called my therapist, Dr. Yvette Moss, who I’d been seeing for three years and who had helped me build a version of myself I was genuinely proud of.
I did not rehearse what I would say. I did not plan a confrontation.
But I also did not pretend.
I let myself feel it—the full, complicated weight of seeing his name in a business inquiry. The anger that never fully died. The grief that had transformed into something harder and cleaner. The absolute steel-cold satisfaction of knowing that he needed something from me.
I laid out my best blazer, the deep burgundy one. I pressed it myself.
I looked in the mirror and I said to my own reflection, “You built this. Nobody gave you a single piece of it.”
Then I went to bed and slept a full eight hours.
Because I was no longer afraid of Edwin Thibido.
I was ready for him.
He walked into my conference room at 2:04 p.m. on a Thursday in October, wearing a gray suit and carrying a leather portfolio.
He had aged. There were lines at the corners of his eyes, a little silver at his temples. He looked prosperous. He looked confident.
He looked at me and froze.
Not a little.
Completely.
Like every circuit in his body tripped at once.
The portfolio actually slipped in his grip and he caught it awkwardly.
And for just a moment—just one raw, unguarded second—the smooth mask came completely off.
“Cammy…”
“Mr. Thibido,” I said. “Please sit down.”
He sat. He was trying to recalibrate. I could see the gears working behind his eyes.
What version of reality was this?
How was she here?
How did she—
“And you own this?” he said finally, not quite a question.
Continued on the next page
