CHAPTER 197
JAX'S POV
Twenty years after standing on that Academy Awards stage, I found myself in a very different kind of spotlight - the lecture hall at Harvard Medical School, where I was delivering the keynote address for their annual conference on trauma psychology. The irony wasn't lost on me that someone who'd spent the first half of his life inflicting psychological damage was now considered an expert on healing it.
"The traditional model of trauma recovery assumes that healing requires distance from the source of trauma," I said, looking out at an audience of psychiatrists, social workers, and graduate students. "My experience suggests that sometimes healing requires transforming that source into something meaningful."
In the front row, I could see Dr. Sarah Martinez, who'd been documenting our family's psychological development for the past fifteen years. Her research on "post-traumatic growth in high-stress family systems" had become required reading in psychology programs worldwide.
"Can you give us a specific example?" a student asked during the Q&A period.
"My family's work in anti-trafficking operations grew directly from experiences with trafficking victimization. Instead of trying to forget or move past those experiences, we transformed them into the foundation for protecting others."
"But doesn't that risk re-traumatization? Isn't there danger in continuously exposing yourself to the same types of threats?"
It was exactly the question that had haunted us for decades, and one that had become more complicated as our children grew up and began making their own choices about how to engage with the world.
"There's always risk," I said honestly. "The question is whether that risk serves a larger purpose. Whether the potential for healing and protection outweighs the potential for additional harm."
After the lecture, I found myself walking across Harvard Yard toward the coffee shop where I'd arranged to meet someone I hadn't seen in five years. The afternoon sun cast long shadows between the historic buildings, and I could hear the sounds of normal college life - students debating, laughing, planning futures that didn't include the kind of moral complexity our children had inherited.
Addison was waiting at a corner table, now thirty-four and looking every inch the successful attorney she'd become. But I could see the same analytical intensity in her eyes that had characterized her even as a toddler.
"Dr. Morrison," she said with the slight smile that meant she was proud of my latest career evolution. "How does it feel to be Harvard's expert on family trauma?"
"Surreal," I admitted, sitting across from her. "Especially considering that half the trauma I'm discussing came from decisions we made as parents."
"Good decisions, though. Necessary decisions."
"Were they? Sometimes I wonder if we could have given you kids more normal childhoods while still doing the work that mattered to us."
Addison was quiet for a moment, stirring her coffee with the methodical precision she brought to everything. At thirty-four, she'd established herself as one of the country's leading advocates for trafficking survivors, using legal channels to accomplish what we'd once achieved through more direct methods.
"Can I tell you something?" she said finally.
"Always."
"I've been in therapy for the past three years."
The admission hit harder than I'd expected, forcing me to confront the possibility that our parenting choices had damaged our children in ways we'd never recognized.
"Because of how we raised you?"
"Because I realized I don't know how to have normal relationships. I can work with colleagues, I can advocate for clients, I can coordinate with law enforcement agencies. But I can't figure out how to trust someone enough to be vulnerable with them."
"Addison..."
"It's not criticism, Dad Jax. It's just reality. I was raised by people who saw emotional vulnerability as a security risk, and I absorbed that lesson so completely that I can't unlearn it."
Through the coffee shop window, I could see Harvard students walking past - young people who'd probably never had to calculate escape routes or assess strangers for potential threats. The kind of normal college experience our children had never been able to have.
"Do you regret the way we raised you?"
"I regret that I can't form lasting romantic relationships. I regret that I see every new person as either an asset or a threat. I regret that I can't relax my guard enough to experience the kind of unconditional trust that makes love possible."
"But?"
"But I don't regret the work I do. I don't regret having the skills to protect myself and others. I don't regret understanding that some things are worth fighting for."
"Even if it means being isolated?"
"Even if it means being different."
Addison pulled out her phone and showed me a photo - a young girl, maybe eight years old, standing beside a woman who looked like she'd been through hell but was smiling with genuine joy.
"This is Maria and her daughter Carmen. Six months ago, Carmen was being trafficked by her father's business associates. Last week, she started third grade at a school in Arizona where no one will ever hurt her again."
"Your case?"
"My case. And it's cases like this that remind me why our family made the choices we made."
I studied the photo, seeing hope and healing in two faces that had probably never expected to experience either.
"How many?" I asked.
"How many what?"
"How many children have you saved through legal advocacy?"
"Two hundred and seventeen. Over the past ten years."
The number was staggering, representing hundreds of lives that had been transformed through the skills and perspective our daughter had developed growing up in our unconventional family.
"Liam's numbers are even higher," she continued. "His international coordination work has helped dismantle trafficking networks across three continents. And Elena's trauma counseling program has provided therapeutic support to over a thousand survivors."
"All three of you chose to continue our work."
"All three of us chose to transform our experiences into something meaningful. Just like you taught us."
A notification on her phone made her check the time, and I could see her shifting into the professional mode that had become second nature.
"I have to go," she said. "Congressional hearing about expanding survivor support services. But there's something else I wanted to tell you."
"What?"
"I'm pregnant."
The announcement hit like lightning, joy and concern warring in my chest as I processed what this meant for our family's future.
"That's wonderful news. How do you feel about it?"
"Terrified. Excited. Determined to figure out how to be a mother who can love unconditionally while still preparing her child for a dangerous world."
"Any thoughts on how to balance those things?"
"I thought I'd ask the people who managed to raise three functional adults despite operating in impossible circumstances."
Standing to leave, she leaned down to kiss my cheek with the casual affection that had always characterized our family relationships.
"The baby's due in six months," she said. "And I want all four parents at the hospital when she arrives."
"She?"
"She. We're having a daughter. The next generation of Mitchell-Kane women who'll probably be even more complicated than the current one."
As I watched her walk away, moving with the confident stride of someone who'd learned to navigate the world on her own terms, I realized that maybe we'd succeeded in ways we'd never intended.
We'd raised children who couldn't form normal relationships, but who'd dedicated their lives to protecting innocent people.
We'd created a family legacy that was both beautiful and tragic, effective and isolating.
But most importantly, we'd proven that love could survive even the most complicated circumstances.
The question was whether the next generation would find better ways to balance protection with connection.
Or whether some kinds of love were destined to be more difficult than others.
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