Page 126 of This Life of Mine

Every time something happenedtome, I didn’t stop. I didn’t fall apart for long. I cried in private and swallowed the fear. I did what needed to be done and kept moving.

I survived poverty without bitterness. Abuse without becoming cruel. Grief without letting it rot me from the inside out.

I lived through a relationship that slowly dismantled my sense of self, piece by piece, until I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

Escaping wasn’t the end of me. I didn’t crumble. I rebuilt.

I carried guilt that wasn’t mine for years and still showed up for other people.

I even buried a child. No parent is ever meant to stand beside a tiny casket and say goodbye to a future that never had the chance to unfold. That alone should have broken me. It should’ve hollowed me out until there was nothing left worth saving. And yet...here I am.

Still loving. Still choosing hope over numbness, even when numbness would be easier.

I’ve been emotionally starved, financially stripped, gaslit into believing I was unworthy of better, and every time, I adapted. I pushed forward.

I didn’t do it loudly or for praise. I did it because stopping was never an option.

So when I think about them—the Allister’s—about people who believe money gives them the right to decide who lives and who doesn’t, I almost pity how badly they’ve misjudged me.

They think I’m soft because I’m kind. They think I’m fragile because I love deeply. They think survival made me small. They’re wrong.

Survival made medurable.

I’ve already been through enough tragedy and cruelty to last a lifetime. Whatever comes next isn’t something I’ll run from. It’s something I’ll outlast. Because I don’t keep going despite what’s been done to me, I keep going because of it.

By the time Val walks up to me, the afternoon light is already slanting through the front windows.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to youall morning,“ she says. “But my shift didn’t start until two, and of course we were slammed.”

I glance at the clock. “Yeah, it got crazy busy.”

She doesn’t even pretend to start working. Just plants her hands on the counter and leans in.

“So,” she says. “How was your night? Tell me everything.”

I sigh, already smiling. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“No,” she says. “This is not agood afternoonconversation. This is ayou let a man come over, cook for you, and stay the nightconversation. I know he stayed. Right? He stayed the night?”

She beams with eagerness.

“It wasn’t like that,” I say automatically.

Val lifts a brow. “Do tell then.”

I laugh and shake my head. “We talked. A lot.”

Her expression shifts. “Oh.”

“Oh?” I echo.

“That’s different,” she says. “You don’t do that.”

I don’t. And the fact that she knows it so easily makes something tighten in me.

“I know,” I admit. “Usually, I keep things light. Safe. Surface-level.” I shrug. “But with him…it just happened.”

What I don’t say presses at the back of my throat.