Chapter 8 - A New Breath
Two years passed.
The name Whitmore faded from the headlines, replaced by newer, fresher scandals.
We had moved away from Connecticut, leaving the toxic society of country clubs and whispered gossip behind. Adam designed and built us a beautiful, sprawling home in the Pacific Northwest, surrounded by towering pine trees and fresh, crisp air.
I used the settlement money from the civil suit—which had entirely bankrupted whatever was left of my father's personal estate—to establish a foundation for victims of domestic and family abuse. Margaret Sloan sat on the board of directors with me.
Emily was now seven years old.
She was thriving, a bright, fearless girl with a loud laugh and a gentle heart. The nightmares of the yellow dress and the dark water had slowly faded away, replaced by memories of hiking, painting, and reading books by the fireplace.
It was a Saturday afternoon in mid-July.
I was sitting on the wooden deck of our backyard, a book resting in my lap. The sun was warm against my skin.
A few yards away, Adam was standing chest-deep in our new, sunlit backyard swimming pool.
Emily was standing on the edge of the pool, wearing a bright blue swimsuit and floaties on her arms.
“Are you ready, Em?” Adam called out, holding his arms open wide.
She giggled, a sound that filled the entire yard with light. “I'm ready, Daddy!”
“One… two… three… jump!”
Emily leaped into the air.
She splashed into the water, and Adam caught her immediately, lifting her high into the air as water cascaded down around them. They were both laughing, completely safe, completely happy.
I watched them, tears pricking the corners of my eyes, but they were tears of profound, overwhelming gratitude.
I had lost my parents, my brother, and my sister. I had burned down the only legacy I had ever known.
But as I looked at my husband and my brave, beautiful daughter, I knew the truth.
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I hadn't lost my family. I had saved them.
And for the first time in my entire life, I could finally breathe.
