the morning, a woman trying to destroy you forgets there is a mirror behind her.
By afternoon, twenty-seven trees stood along the riverbank. Small, fragile, stubborn things.
I stayed until the volunteers left and the light turned gold on the water.
Then I walked the new path alone, my boots sinking into soft earth, my father’s letter folded safely inside my coat.
At the bend in the river, I stopped and looked back.
There was no penthouse suite, no boardroom, no husband waiting with a practiced apology.
Only the trees.
Only the river.
Only the quiet, astonishing truth that what was meant to humiliate me had handed me back my name.
