She died on our final day in prison. Azelma found me in the snowy yard and said, “Maman is dead,” very flatly.

I thought it wasn’t true. How could it be? I could still see Maman—her puckered mouth and the dirt beneath her fingernails. How could she be gone, for always?

“Dead?”

“Yes. They’ve taken her body away. They’ll throw her in some grave that’s meant for prisoners.” Still such hardness in Azelma. “Also, we’re getting out.”

“What?”

“They’re releasing us. We’re too young to be here and so tomorrow, we’ll be out on the streets again.”

I nodded. “What then?”

“I’ll find Papa. I know which prison he’s in. Babet will take care of me until Papa breaks out of there and finds me.” She sniffed. “I’ll live with Babet and Montparnasse. What will you do?”

I didn’t know. I said, “Maybe I’ll wait for Papa too,” but I could tell Azelma didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe myself. There was a wide, wide space between myself and my family now and I thought, He’ll never forgive me for not being the lookout. I didn’t belong with them anymore. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

*  *  *

I couldn’t sleep that night. The others in my cell did, coughing and moaning. But I stayed awake.

Dead. It seemed impossible. Maman had been so real and strong. How could she be lying in a pauper’s grave now? But as I watched the moon come out through the cell bars, I wondered if there was a part of my mother that wasn’t dead at all.

I cried for her. But then I realized I was feeling something else as well. It was strange—as if my heart and head were lighter than they’d been before.

By daybreak, I could name it. It’s relief, I thought. I was relieved because I didn’t have to steal anymore, because I didn’t have to trick or lie or hand out cunning letters to the rich. I didn’t have to take orders from my parents or be scared of being asked, Well? What have you found for us? We all depend on you, you know! I didn’t have to hide my wanting heart away from them. I was free—at last.

I could actually be me, now. The Eponine I’d always wanted to be.

*  *  *

Here’s what I decided, in that prison cell as the sky lightened: I will live alone. I’ll do all the good, kind acts I’ve ever wanted to. I won’t steal. I won’t lie. I’ll make people’s lives better whenever I can manage it. And I’ll never, ever do cruel things again.

I made another promise too. I hadn’t forgotten how nasty I’d been to Cosette. As a child I had hit her and spat at her and called her names and for eight years, I’d felt the shame of it. I’d never truly gotten rid of how sorry I felt.

I’ll make amends, I vowed. Now and for the rest of my life.

I nodded. I liked this vow.

And him? Marius. I still ached for him. But he’d called me generous and smart, and this would be enough: I’d be these things for him.

Did I still think it was unfair? That he didn’t love me back? Yes, I did. I wanted him to. But I’d learned that life wasn’t fair. If it was, we’d have had no need to pluck rings from fingers or buttons from coats; Widow Amandine wouldn’t have been widowed; Gavroche wouldn’t have been left behind. A woman called Fantine wouldn’t have needed to leave her only child at an inn in Montfermeil. Cats wouldn’t kill mice and leave them, uneaten. Kings wouldn’t grow fat on their thrones while their people begged in their rags.

At least I’m still here, I thought then. At least I’m still alive.