I’m Being Charged With Threatening A Coworker In The Office. I’ve Been On Medical Leave In Another

My father had been a patient man, someone who’d taught me that holding on to anger was like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.

I’d thought about him a lot during this ordeal, wondering what he’d say about Keith’s obsession and about the years he’d spent planning revenge.

I think my father would have said what he always said:

“Some people never learn to let go. Don’t be one of them.”

I visited Olivia one more time before leaving Seattle. She’d started therapy and was working through the trauma of being stalked.

She’d also decided to leave Cascade, unable to feel safe in the building where so much had happened. We met for coffee again, this final conversation feeling like closing a chapter we’d both been forced to write.

“How are you doing?”

I asked. Olivia smiled, a sad expression that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Better. Worse. Both. Therapy helps. Knowing the truth helps. But I still look over my shoulder. I still check my car before getting in. I don’t know if that ever goes away.”

“Probably not completely.”

I said honestly.

“Trauma changes us. But it doesn’t have to define us.”

She nodded.

“What about you? Are you angry?”

I thought about it. Was I angry at Keith? Yes, for the betrayal and the cruelty.

At the system that had presumed my guilt? Somewhat. At the months of stress and fear and helplessness? Absolutely.

But I was also aware that anger wouldn’t change anything. It would just be another form of prison.

“I’m angry.”

I admitted.

“But I’m trying not to let it consume me. Keith spent a decade being angry and look where it got him. I don’t want to become that.”

Olivia reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“That’s probably the healthiest thing either of us can do. Move forward instead of looking back.”

We parted ways that afternoon—two people who’d been briefly connected by someone else’s hatred, now going our separate directions to rebuild.

Surviving the Malice

I moved to Portland in April and started my new job. The work was challenging, the team was supportive, and slowly, carefully, I began to rebuild the life that Keith had tried to destroy.

6 months after the trial, I received a letter from Keith in prison. I almost threw it away without reading it, but curiosity won.

The letter was four pages long, handwritten, and filled with apologies and explanations. He wrote about his years of resentment and how he’d felt diminished by our friendship.

He wrote how Stephanie’s rejection had become a symbol of everything he thought was wrong with his life. He wrote about seeing my name at Cascade and feeling that old anger reignite, about convincing himself that I deserved to suffer the way he had.

He wrote about regretting everything, about the therapy he was receiving in prison, and about hoping someday I might forgive him.

I read the letter twice, then put it in a drawer. I wasn’t ready to forgive Keith.

Maybe I never would be. But I also wasn’t going to let his actions define the rest of my life.

I’d survived a motorcycle accident that could have killed me. I’d survived false accusations that could have destroyed me.

I’d survived the malice of someone I’d once called a friend. Those survivals meant something; they meant I was stronger than the worst thing that had happened to me.

A year after the charges were dropped, I was hiking in the Columbia River Gorge on a Saturday morning when I met someone named Clare. She was a teacher, funny and kind, with a smile that made the world feel less heavy.

We talked for 2 hours on that trail, exchanged numbers, and went for coffee the next week. 3 months later, we were dating.

6 months after that, I told her everything: about Keith and Olivia and the accusations.

I’d been nervous, worried she’d see me differently or question whether there was truth to the allegations.

Clare listened to the whole story without interrupting, then said:

“That must have been terrifying. I’m sorry you went through that. But it doesn’t change who you are now. I judge you by the person I know, not by what someone else tried to make you look like.”

That was the moment I realized I’d actually healed. Not completely, not perfectly, but enough to trust someone with my truth and believe they’d see me clearly.

Keith Brennan served 5 years of his 7-year sentence before being released on parole in 2029.

I never spoke to him again. I didn’t attend his parole hearing, didn’t write a victim impact statement, and didn’t follow his life after prison.

He’d taken enough of my time and energy; I wasn’t giving him anymore. Olivia eventually moved to California and got a job at a tech company in San Francisco.

We exchanged emails occasionally—updates on our lives, confirmation that we were both moving forward. She got married in 2030, sent me a photo of her wedding, and wrote that she’d found someone who made her feel safe.

I was genuinely happy for her. As for me, I married Clare in 2031 at a small ceremony in Portland with our families and close friends.

I changed careers from software development to teaching programming at a community college, finding more meaning in helping students than in corporate work.

My leg still aches when it rains, a permanent reminder of the accident that set everything in motion.