At seven months I could not see my feet and I had strong opinions about everything and my daughter, who had not yet been named, seemed determined to spend most nights pressing a heel into my ribs.
I was, despite everything, happy.
Not the fragile surface happiness of pretending things were fine, but the solid happiness of a woman who knew exactly what she was building and was proud of it. My business was growing. I had taken on Kezia full time. I had referrals coming in from three separate networks. The Tribeca loft had been featured in a design publication and my phone had not stopped since.
I had also, quietly and with more difficulty than I expected, begun to forgive Marcus.
Not in a grand gesture. Not in a conversation where I announced it. Just in the way mornings arrived and I no
