Chapter 8
Our daughter was born on a rainy Tuesday in April.
We named her Clara. After my grandmother. She had my eyes and Adrian's dark hair. She was perfect.
I took three months off. Then I went back to work. Adrian took three months after that. We shared. We supported each other. We built a family based on equality and respect.
The Halden Foundation grew. We helped thousands of young women. We funded scholarships. We mentored. We advocated for laws protecting women from coercion and exploitation.
I testified before Congress. I spoke at the UN. I told my story. And every time, a young woman would come up to me afterward and say, "Your story saved me."
That was the real victory. Not the company. Not the money. Not even the justice.
It was the lives we changed.
Clara grew. She was smart. Funny. Fearless. She had no idea what her mother had survived. And I intended to keep it that way. She would grow up knowing she was loved. Safe. Free.
One day, when she was three, she asked me about my father.
"Grandpa?" she said. "Where is he?"
"He's in the stars," I said. "Watching us."
She looked up at the sky. "Hi, Grandpa!" she waved.
May you like
I cried. Adrian held me.
And I knew—my father was watching. And he was proud.
