Office space for counselors and case workers.
Resources. Support. Hope.
We call it Haven House.
The first of what we hope will be many.
I stand in the freshly painted living room watching women arrive for the open house.
Survivors of trafficking. Escapees from cults. Women fleeing abuse.
All of them look scared and hopeful at the same time.
Look the way I must have looked eighteen months ago when Vaughn brought me to Montana and gave me space to heal.
Now I'm giving that space to others.
Transforming my trauma into someone else's salvation.
It feels right.
Feels like everything dark I went through has been alchemized into something luminous.
Vaughn stands beside me, his hand warm in mine as we watch Mrs. Silva finish baking the muffins for the women.
After the issues with the Consortium, we waited a few weeks and then brought her out here, discreetly.
We’d never leave her or Callum behind, and my husband has wanted to create something beautiful with me.
He's been instrumental in making this happen—providing funding, navigating legal structures, using his business connections to secure donations and partnerships.
But he's been careful to let me lead.
Let this be mine while supporting me from behind.
"You did this," he says quietly as we watch a young woman—maybe twenty—tentatively explore the space. "You gave us a safe space."
"We did this. Together."
"No. This was your vision. I just helped build it. The heart of this—the purpose, the meaning—that's all you."
A therapist I hired—who specializes in cult deprogramming and trauma recovery—approaches with a warm smile. "Eden, there's someone who'd like to meet you. She saw the news story about Haven House and drove four hours to be here today."
I follow her to a quiet corner where a woman sits—maybe thirty-five, tired eyes, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"This is Margaret," the doctor says gently. "She left a fundamentalist group six months ago. Been living in her car since. Saw our story and?—"
"I wanted to thank you," Margaret interrupts, her voice shaking. "For understanding. For building something for women like us. For proving we can survive this. Can build something after."
Tears burn in my eyes. "You're going to be okay. I promise. We're going to help you. You don't have to live in your car anymore. You don't have to do this alone."
"I don't know how to—I don't know how to be normal. How to exist in the world. They controlled everything for so long?—"
"I know. I understand exactly what you mean. And I promise you—it gets better. It gets so much better. You'll figure out who you are. What you want. How to be free. It just takes time and support and space to heal."
She's crying now and so am I.
The doctor is discreetly offering tissues.
