My hair was falling loose, my uniform was wrinkled and one stocking had torn at the knee.
I kept it because Harrison had seen something in that exhausted woman before she knew it existed.
Six months after the funeral, I stood in the kitchen with one hand resting on my swollen stomach.
Rain tapped against the windows.
On the counter sat Harrison’s silver box, his letter and the small bracelet that would one day belong to our daughter.
I read the final paragraph again.
Vivian once told you that you would leave my home with exactly what you brought into it.
She was wrong.
You entered carrying fear, exhaustion and the belief that kindness always came with a price.
I hope you leave those things behind.
On our wedding night, I said you would receive exactly what you deserved.
I did not mean the house.
I meant a life in which you were loved without first proving your value.
