Chapter 8
A year passed.
I started a small design studio.
It had one room, two large windows, and a sign above the door with my name on it.
Emily Hart Designs.
I had taken back my maiden name.
Every time I saw it printed on a business card, I felt stronger.
I began volunteering at a local support center for women leaving abusive homes.
At first, I only helped design flyers and websites.
Then one afternoon, a woman sat across from me in a support group and said, “Maybe I’m overreacting. His mother is just difficult.”
The room went quiet.
I knew those words.
I had said them about Linda.
I looked at her gently.
“Difficult people make you uncomfortable,” I said. “Abusive people make you afraid.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“And if someone tells you to ignore what hurts you,” I continued, “ask yourself why your pain is less important than their comfort.”
After the meeting, she hugged me.
That night, I came home and stood in front of the mirror.
The scar from the hospital procedure had faded.
The sadness had not disappeared.
I still thought about my baby.
I always would.
But grief no longer controlled every breath I took.
May you like
I had made room for it.
And I had made room for life too.
