Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN WHO BUILT A NEW LIFE
New York was loud.
Expensive.
Chaotic.
And wonderfully anonymous.
For the first time in years, I could walk into a coffee shop without someone whispering about my husband.
I rented a small apartment in Brooklyn.
Two bedrooms.
A narrow kitchen.
Large windows.
And a tiny balcony overlooking a street lined with trees.
It wasn't luxurious.
But it was mine.
I found work with a nonprofit organization that helped families facing medical debt.
The salary was modest.
The hours were reasonable.
And the work mattered.
Madison visited often.
She brought groceries.
Helped assemble furniture.
And insisted on decorating the nursery.
At sixteen weeks, I learned the baby was a boy.
I cried.
Then laughed.
Then cried again.
Madison hugged me.
“A little boy.”
I nodded.
“A little boy.”
She smiled.
“Have you picked a name?”
I looked toward the ultrasound image.
Then whispered, “Gabriel.”
Madison's expression softened.
“Vincent's favorite?”
I nodded.
She squeezed my hand.
“You don't have to use it.”
“I know.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“But I like it too.”
For the first time, the name belonged to me.
Not Vincent.
Not the Moretti family.
Not the marriage.
May you like
Just me.
And my son.
