She swallowed.
“I want to show him the article before it hits the world. Not for him. For closure.”
My jaw ticked once. Then I nodded. “Where?”
“A café,” she said. “Somewhere neutral. Somewhere public so he can’t rewrite me.”
“I’ll be close,” I said.
She exhaled hard. “I’m giving him the divorce papers too. Signed. Done.”
I waited.
“And I’m telling him I’m keeping the house,” she continued. “But not as a home.”
Her voice changed when she said our daughter’s name. Softened. Deepened. Took on that sacred resonance she carried whenever grief turned into purpose.
“I’m turning it into Gracie’s Sanctuary.”
The words landed in my chest like both a blessing and an earthquake.
“A sanctuary,” I echoed.
She nodded. “A place for parents whose babies are born sleeping. Somewhere to go after the hospital. Somewhere warm. Quiet. Where they can stay a day or two. Hold them. Bathe them. Dress them. Say goodbye inside walls that know what love was supposed to look like.”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“There’ll be nurses if needed. Mental health support. A kitchen families can use. A garden. A swing on the porch. A room for castings. A photographer on call. Peaceful. Gentle. Real. Everything I wished existed when we were drowning.”
My throat burned.
“You’re giving the world a place to breathe its grief,” I said quietly. “You’re giving them what you never had.”
She nodded. “Blake can’t say no. It was my grandparents’ house. My name’s on the deed. My choice. And I won’t dig up our daughter to soothe his mother’s conscience. Gracie stays exactly where she is.”
I reached across the table, slid my hand over hers. Her fingers curled around mine immediately, instinctive, like she’d been waiting for an anchor.
“And you?” I asked. “Where will you be?”
Her eyes lifted. Brave. Fragile. Luminous.
“With you,” she said. “In your apartment. High above the skyline. I want to start again somewhere that isn’t soaked in old ghosts.”
Something inside my chest split open.
“And the sanctuary?” I asked.
“Peter and his wife will run it. I’ll fund everything. Make sure they have real support. Real structure.”
I let out a slow breath. Fierce. Reverent.
“So, you’re choosing to live,” I said.
“I’m choosing the truth,” she whispered. “And I’m choosing you.”
Time stilled.
The city quieted like it was listening.
