Chapter 8
The twins turned ten.
They had a party. In the backyard. All their friends. A bounce house. A cake. Harold played soccer. Margaret painted faces. They were happy. Healthy. Loved.
William had a good job. Sarah was still teaching. They were happy. They'd bought a house ten minutes away. We saw each other every day.
The Bennett Fund had helped over five hundred women. We had a staff. An office. A board. We were changing lives.
The reserve was thriving. Schools visited. Hikers walked the trails. Birds nested. The land Harold's family had owned for generations was protected. Forever.
I was seventy. I was still sharp. Still driving. Still traveling. Still working. Still — alive.
One evening, I sat on the porch. The sun was setting over the reserve. The trees were gold and red. The air was cool. I had a glass of wine. Harold's chair was empty. Arthur's chair was empty. But I didn't feel alone.
I thought about that night. The ballroom. The chandeliers. The slap. The contracts. The cancellation. The walk away.
I thought about forty-five thousand dollars. About the land I'd sold. About the trip I'd canceled. About everything I'd lost.
And I thought about everything I'd gained. My son back. My grandchildren. Arthur. The foundation. The reserve. My freedom. My self-respect.
May you like
It had been worth it. Every penny. Every tear. Every sleepless night.
Because I'd found myself. The woman I'd been before I was someone's mother. Someone's wife. Someone's bank account. I'd found Margaret Bennett. And she was — magnificent.
