Page 117 of This Life of Mine

Or the postpartum depression that came afterward and hollowed her out piece by piece while everyone expected her to smile through it.

Virginia once told me there’s nothing lonelier than carrying unbearable grief while everyone around you celebrates the life you’ve just brought into the world.

I didn’t fully understand what she meant back then.

Now I do.

She loved being a mother fiercely, almost obsessively, because she knew how fragile it all was. How quickly life could take things away from women while expecting them to survive it gracefully.

That’s why she built the trust the way she did.

It wasn’t for Cole or the Allister name. It was for me. Because she and I lived the same pain.

She didn’t want the money tangled up in marriage or accessible to any man who might one day decide he was entitled to it. She made it ironclad. Untouchable. Mine the moment my little guy was growing inside my fragile body.

Because to Virginia, that was the moment a woman needed protection most. Before abandonment. Before betrayal. Before life could corner her without options.

I still remember the way she explained it to me, like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“Men come and go, darling. But your child will love you in a way the world never will if you raise him with kindness. And knowing my idiot grandson, there’s a decent chance you’ll need something that belongs only to you someday.”

At the time, it seemed harsh. Maybe cruel. Now I understand it was the closest thing Virginia knew to love.

She didn’t believe in rescuing women from bad choices. She believed in making sure they survived them.

And somehow…she knew.

Maybe not the full details. Maybe not the coming divorce or the years of emotional erosion with Cole. But I think some part of her recognized the same loneliness in me that she once carried herself.

So she prepared for the day I might need a way out. And she was right.

After the divorce, I walked away with almost nothing. No real work history. No financial independence. No credit strong enough to stand on my own. I was thirty-one years old, trying to rebuild a life from scraps while pretending I wasn’t terrified every second of it.

I told myself I’d never touch that money. Then survival stopped being theoretical.

Virginia’s trust kept me afloat long enough to finish school. Long enough to breathe without depending on Cole or the Allister’s ever again.

I was lucky.

Most women leave situations like mine with absolutely nothing. No money. No support. No safe place to land. At least I still had people who loved me.

I still visited Virginia after the divorce. Still loved her, and I mourned her intensely when she left this world.

When Virginia passed, the Allister’s made my place in the family abundantly clear.

I wasn’t welcome at the funeral.

At the time, I convinced myself it was grief. Pettiness. Resentment over the divorce. Now I know better.

They didn’t want me standing beside the truth. They didn’t want people seeing who Virginia chose at the very end.

Because despite everything—despite the divorce, despite the family name and even Cole—Virginia chose me.

And if people remembered that, they might start asking why.

I collapse onto the side of the bed as the weight of it all crashes down on me.

Virginia did it to protect me. To make sure I could build a life of my own. One they could never take from me.