ROOMS OF EXPERIENCE - Act 3

As the case builds momentum, so do Dana's doubts. Every piece of evidence paints a different picture than the one in her file. A mother who gave everything, who could have hidden her crime but didn't. Who spent decades trying to protect her son from a system that repeatedly failed families like hers. Dana speaks with witnesses who've lived the same story. Caregivers of disabled family members. Experts who've seen institutional abuse firsthand. These aren't just character witnesses for Ada. They're witnesses to a broken system. A kind of system Ada feared would swallow her son the moment she was gone. Act 3. Interior courtroom. Day. Court is in session. Ada on the stand to resume her testimony. Ada, in your own words, can you tell us what happened the night of April 24th of this year? It had been a good day, as close to perfect a day as could get for us. No meltdowns, no outbursts. The rain had held off till evening, so Teddy was able to lie in the garden, feel the sun on his face. Insert flashback, montage. Teddy lies on his back in the garden. Ada watches him from the doorway. Ada runs a bath for Teddy, pours bubble bath into the tub. Teddy enters the bathroom. He wears a robe. Ada brings Teddy a dish of ice cream. Teddy gets into bed. Ada tucks him in, sits next to him, checks her watch. Ada picks up a cloth hood from the nightstand. Ada connects a tube to the helium tank, turns a valve on a tank. Ada sits on the bed with Teddy, holds his hand. Ada checks Teddy's pulse, strokes his hair, and kisses his cheek, then lays her head on his chest and sobs. Ada removes a yellow balloon from a package and uses the tank to fill it. Back to scene. Ada, by your own admission, you're telling us you took your son's life. Why did you do it? About a year ago, I read an article about a woman who lived with her 84-year-old mother, just the two of them. The woman was deaf, blind, and mentally disabled. Her mother had taken care of her for so many years, just like Teddy and me. when the mother died at home the woman crawled around on the floor over her mother's dead body looking for food and water before before she was finally found a week later she was so traumatized they had to put her into the hospital all I could think was that was that that could have been Teddy, all alone, unable to even walk out the front door for help. But Ada, there are state hospitals, residential living facilities. Why didn't you just find somewhere else for him to go? 65 years Teddy lived in that house with me. He knew every spot where the floor creaked, exactly how long it took the toaster to pop up, when it was time to plant the strawberries. That was his home, his sanctuary. It was where he belonged, where he felt secure, even happy. How could I take all that away from him? Her voice breaks, but she keeps going. Where else in the world would they let him play piano at two o'clock in the morning if he woke up from a bad dream? Where would they let him lie in the dirt and take comfort from the earth? Where would they hold him and stroke his hair and tell him how beautiful he was? How truly beautiful. Where would he be safe? Where? Where is that place? A juror fumbles for a tissue. Alexis waits a moment before continuing. Ada, did you also plan to take your own life that day? I did. What stopped you? I had to tell our story. I couldn't bear anyone thinking I took my son's life because I didn't love him. Or because I thought he was a burden. or I was tired of taking care of him. Even when I was exhausted and sad and I couldn't understand what Teddy needed, never for a moment did I ever wish he wasn't my son. Tears fall freely down her face. I'm not saying I never wished he didn't have autism. I wished that a lot, especially when he was young. It's only human to feel that way. You never expect to have a child with a disability. It catches you completely off guard, changes the way you think about everything. I hated watching Teddy struggle. he had so much to offer the world and would never get the chance. It made me so angry. It was so unfair. But having Teddy in my life, even with autism, is always what I would choose over never having had him at all. how empty my life would have been without him. Ada looks out into the gallery. In the front row, she sees her 24-year-old self with infant Teddy in her arms as she coos to him and lulls him to sleep and brings him to her chest, kisses the top of his head, breathes deep in contentment. Alexis steps closer to Ada, puts her hand on the rail of the witness box. Ada, on the day you took your son's life, did you believe at that moment what you were doing was wrong? No Thank you, Ada No more questions Your witness? She walks back to her seat Dana stands, straightens her jacket, steps around to the front of the prosecution table Just so we're perfectly clear Mrs. Wells, did you kill your son? Yes. And do you believe killing a person is wrong? Under most circumstances, yes. But not in your circumstance. Because you didn't think your son could adapt to living anywhere else. A theory which you could have easily tested while he was still alive. but you chose not to. Without exploring any other options, you planned and carried out the manner of your son's death. You murdered your son because you alone decided that your son's life would be worthless without you. Exterior, Ada's house, day. Flashback, 1990. Ada, in her mid-fifties, stands on the front porch, the door wide open. In the early morning, the air is still, the street quiet. She motions with her hand. Oh, come, come look, Teddy. It's so beautiful after the rain. No movement from inside. Please, Teddy. I promise nothing bad will happen. You're all grown up now. You can do it. Teddy, around 30 years old, appears in the doorframe. That's it. Come see the red bud tree. It's bursting with flowers. She points towards the front yard. Teddy peers out in curiosity, but does not step outside. Please, Teddy. Just one step. I promise you'll be safe. I'll be right here with you. Always. Teddy hesitates, slides one foot a few inches forward. Suddenly, the stillness is broken by the thud of a newspaper against the wooden porch railing. A boy on a bicycle whizzes down the sidewalk. A second later, an avalanche of sounds of a regular day. The wail of a siren, a barking dog. A door slams, a baby cries. Teddy lets a cry of distress, claps his hands over his ears. He sinks to the floor, rocks back and forth. Ada rushes inside. Interior Ada's front hallway, continuous. Ada quickly but softly closes the door behind her. Teddy, still on the floor, hits the back of his head against the wall. His cries of distress continue. Ada, in tears, runs past him, returns a second later with a well-worn but soft plush blanket. She slides down next to Teddy, rubs the blanket on his arm and cheek. I am so sorry. So sorry. I won't ever ask you that again. I'm so sorry, Teddy. I should have known better. Please forgive me. I'm sorry. Oh, I'm so sorry. She rocks with him as she soothes him with the blanket. Interior courtroom day. Ada looks out, lost in thought, then turns directly to Dana. All I can say to you is everything I've done in the past 65 years was what I believed to be in the best interest of my son for our situation. No one in this room can truly know what that was. I realize, though, that you still have to judge me from a place of law, or maybe your own personal feelings, because that's what keeps order and helps you make sense of something like this. I never thought Teddy's life had any less worth, any less meaning, because he had autism. What I did wounded me in a way I could never make you understand. But I wouldn't change it. It's all right. You do what you need to do. It doesn't matter what happens to me. I just want you to see we all have our own peace to make in this world. However we may find it. Dana is silent. Counselor No further questions The defense rests Your Honor Does the prosecution wish to call any rebuttal witnesses Yes, Your Honor. Then we'll resume after lunch. Dismissed. Grab Sir Gavel. I need it. I'm a routine for fun. I think I have. That's fine. We have some sports. We'll give you some tissues. Oh, Dale. Perfect. And by the way, I think you're terrific. How about a little... Beautiful. Fantastic. Let's take a beat and then when you're ready. All right. I just didn't want to be disgusting in the shots. Audio only. Okay. Interior courthouse. Attorney conference room. Day. Gina opens a bag, takes out food. Alexis sits at the table, reviews notes. Ada stands at the window, looks down on the crowd of demonstrators below. All those years, barely anyone knew I even existed. Now look at all the fuss. You made people think, Ada, that's never a bad thing. Did I ever tell you about Teddy's art? The drawings in his room? Oh, mm-hmm. To most people, they probably look like nonsense. but they were his way of expressing himself. They represent how he saw the world and how he saw himself in it. I understood that. Every time something upset him, he would draw. It's how he worked through it. The chants of the protests waft up. Ada gazes out, squints against the bright sun. But no amount of drawing could ever make the world a safe place for him. I did try, but I couldn't make it safe for him either. So making our home his sanctuary was all I could think to do. She coughs, gets louder and more insisting. Gina and Alexis exchange glances. Gina brings Ada a box of tissue. Here, Ada. Why don't you come sit down? Have something cold to drink. She ushers Ada over to the table. Interior courtroom, day. Court is back in session. The state calls Dr. Monique Ogden. Dr. Ogden, late 40s, stylish appearance, walks with authority, enters the courtroom, sits in the witness box. The bailiff approaches. Please raise your right hand. Do you swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? I do. Your Honor, Dr. Ogden is testifying as an expert in the field of autism. Please state your qualifications, Dr. Ogden. Certainly, Your Honor. I hold a PhD in childhood development with the postgraduate work at Harvard School of Medicine. My educational expertise is in the areas of developmental psychology and developmental psychopathology. I am the director of the autism clinic at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and former co-director of the Marcus Autism Neurodevelopment Center in Atlanta. Additionally, I am a professor of child and adolescent psychiatry. I have worked with children with autism and their families for almost 30 years. The court is satisfied Dr. Ogden has met the requirements of Rule 702. Any objections from the defense? No, Your Honor. You may proceed. Dr. Ogden, could a person with severe autism, such as Theodore Wells, learn to adapt to a new environment after spending his entire life in the same house with the same caretaker? Yes, he could. It would take some special consideration, someone to get to know him and how he communicates before his mother was gone, along with recreating a similar environment and routine in his new living space. But it most certainly could be done. People with low-functioning autism navigate their world almost like a movie with no soundtrack. They don't want their routine broken because they are unsure how to restore the track. It would take some time. But with intense therapy, I'm sure it would not only be possible, but a highly successful transition in which he could thrive. Just so I have it straight, in your expert opinion, as it relates to this case, Theodore Wells could have adjusted to living in a new home without his mother as his caretaker and lived an equally fulfilling life. In my expert opinion, yes. Thank you, Dr. Ogden. Your witness. Alexis smiles in anticipation. Dana returns to her table while Alexis remains seated. Dr. Ogden, do you work with many older autism patients? I have worked with them, yes. The key word there was many. Almost all of your work is with children. Isn't that correct? Children and teenagers, yes. You don't have a child with autism, do you? No, I do not. Have you personally, as an autism expert, ever come across a case such as this? A man with severe autism being removed from his only home, his only family member, after six and a half decades, and continuing to thrive? I don't have any personal experience with a case exactly like this. Have any of your colleagues? I'm not certain. I would have to check. Convenient. How about any case studies? Read any of those? 65 years, same home, same caretaker. Moved him, and he was fine. Anything like that? There have been some similar situations. Really? Similar how? I've worked with adults with autism after they were removed from their family homes. You have? How old were these adults? To my recollection, the oldest was 23. Dana bites the inside of her lip. A low murmur is heard through the courtroom. 23. That's not quite 65, is it? Did these patients of yours still have living family members? Parents? Siblings? Loved ones to visit? Monitor their care. Take them home for visits and holidays. I'm not sure. You're not sure? Weren't these your patients, doctor? Objection. Asked and answered. I'll allow it. Please answer the question, doctor. Reflecting back, yes, they had family who visited. So even with all your expertise, you can't say with any degree of certainty that Teddy Wells would have been just fine. You can't say that he wouldn't have been utterly traumatized by the sudden upheaval in his life, unable to respond or communicate in any meaningful way. You don't know because you've never come across a single case study, even remotely, like Teddy's, have you? I can't say definitively, but based on... Alexis stands, leans across the table, and interrupts the doctor with force. Just answer the question. Yes or no, doctor. Do you have any actual experience with a case as extreme as this? No. Alexis gives a dismissive wave of her hand, sits back in her seat. That's what I thought. I'm through with this witness. Redirect? No, Your Honor. You may step down, Dr. Ogden. She quickly leaves the courtroom. Dana does not look at her. Does the state wish to call any further witnesses? The state rests, Your Honor. Court is adjourned. We will reconvene at 9 a.m. tomorrow for closing arguments. The judge wraps her gavel. People gather their belongings and file out. The noise level rises. Dana stays seated. Carter speaks to her, but she isn't listening. She notices Ada looking at her and holds her gaze, and turns away when she realizes Carter is talking. Exterior Dana's car, moving, night Dana drives slowly down a residential street She stops in front of Ada's house, turns off her lights Interior Dana's car, night Dana stares at Ada's house Light shines from a front window Ada appears at the window, looks out into the night The house goes dark Dana sits for a moment and drives away Interior courtroom, day The room is packed, everyone in position except the judge. People fan themselves. Dana dabs discreetly at her forehead and upper lip with a tissue. Ada does not look well. The judge enters, takes her seat. All rise. This court is now in session. Everyone rises. Good morning. He's settled. As there are no more witnesses, we will proceed to closing statements. Beginning with the prosecution, are you ready to begin, Mrs. Jeffries? Dana remains standing as the rest of the room sits. Yes, Your Honor. Dana turns to address the jury. Ada Wells committed murder. She told you so right here in this very courtroom. She searched the internet, gathered the equipment she needed, selected the day, and killed her son. And no matter what the reasoning was behind it, no matter how sorry you may feel for her and what she has been through in her life, remember that she had a choice, and that choice was murder. When you cut through all the emotion, all the heartbreak, you're still left with murder, plain and simple, and that is what you must find Ada Wells guilty of. Thank you. She steps back as Alexis comes around the defense table. Some Buddhist teachings justify taking human life on the grounds of compassion in dire circumstance. One text says, Taking life is unreprehensible when it develops from a virtuous thought. Ada's only thought was that her son should die at peace, in the only place and with the only person he'd ever known, comforted and secured in her love, rather than lost and confused, alone among strangers. There was no malice, no deceit, no attempt to cover up what she had done, because there was no crime committed. On the day Ada took Teddy's life, she believed fully and completely that what she was doing was not wrong. In her mind, she was taking care of her son, just as she always had. John Steinbeck wrote, Ada Wells lived with her son in such a room. A room where none of us have ever been for 65 years. Not because she had to. Not out of obligation. But out of love. And her final act for her son was out of love, too. She takes a moment to let that connect. Returns to her seat. Rebuttal, Your Honor? The judge nods. Dana stands. Steps right up to the jury. I don't think anyone here doubts that Ada Wells loved her son. That's not in question. But Ada Wells isn't on trial for loving her son. She is on trial for killing him. Ada Wells thought her son would be better off dead if she were not around to take care of him But that was not her decision to make Stop Sorry Ada Wells is on trial for not loving her Oh So let take it from the top No. Isn't on trial for not loving her. Yeah, right. On trial for not loving her. Great. Thanks, Nick. Thank you. I don't think anyone here doubts that Ada Wells loved her son. That is not in question. But Ada Wells isn't on trial for not loving her son. She's on trial for killing him. Adewells thought her son would be better off dead if she were not around to take care of him, but that was not her decision to make. Mrs. Wells had cared for her son all by herself, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe by not seeking out others to share her burden, she in fact created the very situation she felt she only had one solution, killing her own son. Mrs. Wells told us that there was no one else, no family, no one who would care for Teddy as she did. And maybe in the first few years of Teddy's life, that was true. But now there are numerous organizations, agencies, schools, therapy centers, assisted living facilities. Any number of these places would have taken Teddy in, given him the care and attention he needed, and even given her some of her life back in the process. Sadly, Ada Wells had no trust, no faith in these systems based on what? Her intuition? Sweeps her arm in Ada's direction. And that gave her the right to decide her own child would be better off dead? Perhaps if she had just let go of struggling alone and simply asked for help, none of us would be here today. I have no doubt it was frightening for Mrs. Wells to think of leaving her son to the care of strangers. But where then do we draw the line? At what point do we make the distinction of whether or not a life is worth living, worth continuing? Takes a quick breath, keeps going. We talk about quality of life as though it takes a certain amount of it for life to be justified. Teddy Wells had music. He had art. He had his garden. And by Ada's own account, he was happy. This is a life that had value. Don't you think if Teddy could have spoken, he would have said the same? Be his voice and return with the verdict of guilty. Dana sits at her desk in near darkness, still in work clothes, but for once they are wrinkled and in disarray. A spot of light from a lamp illuminates one of the colored envelopes, open, with a letter and small picture next to it. Ethan pokes his head in. It's late. Dana gathers up the letter and the picture. Yeah, I'll be there in a little bit. Okay. Dana? Yes? You could talk to me. There isn't anything you could tell me that will make me love you less. You're safe with me, you know that, right? Sometimes you just have to let go and trust someone. She does not respond. He waits, gives a small sigh, walks away. She lifts her hand off the picture, looks down at it. Interior Dana's home office, day. Dana sits in the same spot as the sun comes up. Interior Ada's house, front hallway. A knock on the front door. Ada enters from the kitchen. Her movements labored. She opens the door to find Dana on the porch, dressed as earlier. You don't have to speak with me. In fact, I shouldn't be here. And this will probably... This will likely get me disbarred. Is the verdict in? No. This isn't about the case. Come in. Ada unlocks the screen door. Pushes it open. Interior, Ada's kitchen, Day. Dana sits at the table. Ada pulls a whistling kettle off the stove, crosses to the table, and pours water for tea. Her hand shakes noticeably. You know, for years, the medical community said I didn't love my son enough, and that's what caused his autism. You're the first person who ever accused me of loving him too much. I, um, I didn't... You may have been right in a way. I had held on for so long, I didn't know how to let go. Doctors always talked about Teddy like he was broken and needed to be fixed. I was afraid of what that meant. I really did believe I was the only one who could ever truly care for him and know what he needed. And so you just accepted it? It was just that easy? Oh, no. It was never easy. I was depressed. I was angry. Sometimes after Teddy would finally fall asleep, I would scream into a pillow until I had nothing left. I was angry at my husband for not even trying to understand. angry at my family for not being there for me. I wondered what I had done to deserve it. Then I used to feel guilty until I realized none of it was a reflection on who I was as a person or my ability to be a good mother. Did you ever have any doubts about your feelings for Teddy? My sister asked me once if I found it difficult to love Teddy. I told her, it's only the disability you struggle to embrace, not the child. Dana removes the colored envelope from her purse, opens it. I asked my parents never to send anything after I left, but they did. Frequently. All these years, I never opened any of them, though. I don't know why I didn't know. Dana takes the picture out of the envelope. I told them after I left I never wanted to talk about it. She pushes the picture across the table to Ada. Ada picks it up. Close on a school picture of a little girl. She's about eight years old and has Down syndrome. Ada studies the picture, then looks at Dana. This is your child? I mean, I haven't seen her in almost eight years, since she was five months old. she was born with a hole in her heart it's common for babies with down syndrome the pregnancy wasn't planned I was 29 and my fiance Chris had started his career and I was just about done with law school those first few months were just a blur doctor's appointments and tests and people constantly in and out and I was still trying to study in the midst of all of it so I could graduate pretending I could keep it all together and that everything was just perfect. Dana takes a sip of tea. Chris was so thrilled to be a dad. He was an only child, adopted, and a family was everything to him. He didn't seem at all concerned about her disability. She was just his beautiful little girl. And it made me feel like Something was wrong with me for feeling so cheated. Insert hospital room. Flashback. Dana stands in a back corner of the room. Her fiancé, Chris, early 30s, bends over the bed, strokes the hair of the baby girl as a nurse removes wires and tubes from her. A doctor speaks to Dana and Chris. Chris nods at the doctor. Dana stares off into space, chews a nail. The nurse smiles at Chris and wheels the baby out of the room. Chris and the doctor follow. Dana remains rooted. She looks around the room at all the cards, flowers, and stuffed animals. Her gaze lifts to a floating bouquet of get well balloons. Dana crosses over to the window, takes a small stuffed cat, and walks out. Back to scene. Dana stares into her cup. I sat there in the waiting room while she was having surgery and thought, maybe she'll die. Maybe she'd be better off. maybe I'd be better off. Like, what kind of person has those thoughts about their own baby? I wasn't worthy of being a mother and I felt guilty and ashamed and lost. I was angry at myself and angry at Chris because he seemed so unaffected by it all. And I really needed someone to talk to, like someone who would tell me it was okay to feel this way. Someone who wouldn't judge me for wanting back the life I'd lost. Dana looks up at Ada. But I didn't have that, so I just walked out. I walked out of that hospital and I never went back. Not to see if my daughter survived, not even to see my parents again. I couldn't... I couldn't face anyone. I was a coward, a failure as a mother, and as far from perfect as I could possibly get. I didn't know how to love my own daughter, and here I've been in court trying to judge you. I'm so sorry, Ada. I don't know why I put you through this. I think I wanted so desperately to prove leaving your child to someone else was the right thing to do, because it meant that I made the right choice, too. Ada closes her eyes. Insert continuous. Ada sees herself standing side by side with adult Teddy as he lets a yellow balloon drift up towards the shining sun. Back to scene. Ada opens her eyes, looks closely at Dana. There is an enormous sense of loss that comes with being the parent of a child with a disability. It never fades. But in time, you learn to live with it. life grows in and up and around it, even though it waits below the surface and bubbles up just when you think you've forgotten it. But that part of you that feels that pain or confusion or resentment, that's the same part of you that feels love and tenderness and care. She picks up the picture, looks at it, and puts it back on the table and slides it over to Dana. Not all choices are permanent. She removes her hand from the picture and places it on top of one of Dana's. Do you realize in telling me your story not once did you ever speak your daughter name Dana looks at the picture Maddie Dana looks up at her. Her name is Maddie. Her eyes well with tears. Interior Dana's office, day. Dana reads at her desk. She is dressed in court attire. The desk phone rings. She picks it up, listens. I'm on my way down. She hangs up, grabs her briefcase, yells as she hurries out. Carter! Verdict's in! Her door slams shut. Exterior, Ada's backyard. Day. The sliding glass door opens from inside. Ada steps out into the brilliant sunshine. Teddy beckons to her from the garden. Interior courtroom, day. Everyone is present except for Alexis and Ada. Dana glances over at the empty defense table and checks her watch. Alexis enters the courtroom, walks to the front. Her usual energy is missing. Permission to approach, Your Honor? Counselors approach. Dana joins Alexis in front of the bench. Alexis speaks in a low voice. The judge nods. Dana and Alexis return to their seats. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. This case has been dismissed and you are hereby released from duty. There's a murmur about the courtroom. The jurors look at one another confused, gather themselves to leave. Dana approaches Alexis. When did she die? Sometime last night. An autopsy's pending, but she'd probably been ill for several months. She knew it was her time. Was she alone? Not completely. She was in the garden. Looked like she had just laid down and went to sleep. In a big, hollowed-out spot. A little bigger than she was. Where Teddy used to lay. I just saw her. Alexis gives her a questioning look. I'm sorry, I didn't offer you a deal. Alexis nods and walks away. The last jury member steps down from the jury box. Dana calls out. Wait! She rushes over. What was the verdict? Exterior Ada's backyard, day. Ada and Teddy lie side by side in the dirt, hold hands. They watch a yellow balloon lift higher and higher into the blue sky. Exterior cemetery, day. Alexis and Gina stand by Ada's gravesite. A reverend reads from the Bible. Dana approaches but keeps her distance, stands off to one side. The reverend finishes, the casket lowers into the ground. Alexis and Gina hug. Alexis notices Dana, says something to Gina and breaks away. Dana watches as Alexis walks toward her. I was hoping you'd be here. She pulls an envelope out of her purse. She left this for you. Dana takes the envelope from her. Their eyes meet. Take care, Dana. Alexis rejoins Gina. They walk towards a waiting town car. Dana walks over to Ada's grave, takes a flower from a wreath. Rest in peace, Ada. She places the flower atop the casket. Interior, Dana's car, Day. Dana sits, parked in front of Ada's house. There's a moving van in the driveway, a government car parked behind it. She watches movers load furniture into the van. Interior, Ada's living room, Day. Dana enters from the front hallway, looks around the room. Moving boxes are everywhere, laden with Ada's possessions. She crosses to the piano, picks up a framed photo. Close on a photo of young Ada holding Teddy as a toddler. A rare photo of both of them smiling into the camera. Sets the picture back on the piano, walks over to the sliding glass door, looks out at the garden. She opens the door. Exterior backyard, continuous. Dana steps out, glances around. Her eyes land on the hollowed-out spot in the garden. She crosses to the spot, kneels down, presses her hand to the earth, closes her eyes. A court-appointed administrator for Ada's estate appears in the doorway. Can I help you? Dana stands up, whirls around. I'm from the DA's office. The administrator just stares at Dana. Dana fishes in her purse, produces her credentials. I need to finish some paperwork in regards to the legal proceedings. I won't be long. The administrator peers at Dana's identification. Take your time. We'll be sorting through this junk for a while. Disappears back inside. Dana follows. Interior living room, continuous. Dana re-enters from the backyard. She takes the photo from the piano, looks at it, and brings it to her chest. She glances around the room one last time. Walks to the front door, takes the photo with her. Interior Dana's home office, night. Dana sits at her desk. Ada's unopened letter and the framed photograph she took from Ada's house in front of her. She opens the letter and reads. A range of emotions play across her face. She struggles to rein them in. Finally, she can no longer hold back and breaks down. Sobs as she gets to the end of the letter. Interior Dana's house. Foyer. Night. The front door opens. Ethan enters, hangs up his jacket. He hears crying, calls out. Dana? Hurries towards the back of the house. Interior Dana's home office, continuous. Ethan rushes in, kneels in front of Dana's chair. Still clutching the letter, she dissolves in his arms. She clings to him as they sink to the floor. He rocks her. Close on Dana's laptop screen. Open to a social media account for Christopher Moreland. There are multiple photos of a man with a young girl with Down syndrome. Exterior airport, day. Ethan's car pulls up in the departure lane, stops. Ethan exits the driver's side, steps back to the trunk, removes a suitcase. Dana exits the passenger side, stands on the curb. Her hair is loose, flowing, and she is dressed in a sundress and sandals. Ethan brings the suitcase to her. They kiss. I love you. I love you too. She takes the suitcase, walks into the airport. Interior airplane, day. Dana boards the plane, finds her seat, settles herself. The flight crew prepares for takeoff. She leans back in her seat, pulls a small stuffed cat out of the pocket of her sweater, holds it in her lap, closes her eyes as the plane shuttles down the runway. Montage during Ada's voiceover. The plane lands. Dana walks through the airport. Dana rents a car. Dana drives through the suburbs. Dana pulls into the parking lot of a ball field. When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous trip to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful plans. After months of eager anticipation, the day arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. The stewardess comes in and says, Welcome to Holland. Holland, you say? What do you mean, Holland? I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life, I've dreamed of going to Italy. But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland, and there you must stay. The important thing is, they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place. It's just a different place. So you must go out and buy new guidebooks. and you must learn a whole new language and you will meet a whole new group of people you would have never met. It's slower paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts. But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy. And for the rest of your life, you will say, yes, that's where I was supposed to go. And the pain of that will never, ever, ever go away because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss. But if you spend your life mourning the fact you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about Holland. Exterior ball field day. Softball game in progress. Challenger League for children with a range of special needs. Some kids are in wheelchairs. Some cannot speak or see. But everyone is having a great time. Parents in the stands clap enthusiastically. Dana exits the rental car, watches the game. A big cheer erupts as a child gets a hit, and their buddy pushes the wheelchair to first base. She starts towards the stands. Behind the backstop, Chris kneels next to Maddie, 7. He sees Dana approach, stands up. As she gets closer, he puts a protective arm around Maddie. Dana stops a few feet away. Chris speaks to Maddie, then walks forward to Dana. I didn't believe your mom when she said you were coming. You have no right to be here, not after all this time. What makes you think you can walk back in here like nothing happened? Something did happen. What does that mean? Why are you here? What do you want? I made a mistake. A terrible mistake because I didn't know who I was and I didn't believe in myself. I didn't think I could be a mother or a good one anyway, so I did what I thought was best for everyone. I failed you, and I failed our daughter. I don't expect you to forgive me. She spots Maddie running towards them. But maybe she can. Maddie runs up to Chris. Daddy! It's almost my turn. Okay, sweetheart. I'll be right there. Maddie looks at Dana. Hi. Hello. Are you here to watch the game? Dana looks at Chris. Would that be all right? Sure. Are you for the home team or the away team? I think home. That's my team. She takes Dana's hand. Come on. I'll show you where to sit. She leads Dana towards the stands. Dana turns to look back at Chris, tears in her eyes. He puts up a hand and shakes his head as if to acquiesce, makes no move to stop them. That's a really pretty dress. Your hair color is just like mine. Do you have any pets? We had two cats and a hamster. My name's Maddie. What's yours? Chris watches them walk away. Fade out. The end. Yes, the emotional's good. Yeah, you guys got me too. Thank you very much, everybody. Thank you.