Four Months Later

"My hopes are that this place becomes a refuge for all women in need," I say, nice and loud so that the hundred or so people gathered in the miserable fall drizzle can all hear me. Behind us is a giant yellow excavator.

We're about to break ground on Eauverte's first women's shelter, which I've christened Deborah House, since it's my money behind the project. I sent an invitation to Deborah herself, but I guess it was too much to hope that she'd actually come.

"A place of safety where we can support each other during the tough times we all walk through—the times when we need a little grace, a little extra help—a little mercy," I finish as a few umbrellas pop out among the crowd.

Multiple cameras are pointed at me, but I know better than to look directly at them. One is from the local news channel. The other two are on the shoulders of Dan and Joel, the Making Julia cameramen I've gotten to know so well over the past months. Ally herself has turned up for this event in her trademark outfit—a black dress with red sneakers. I feel a little guilty about pulling her from the perfect weather of her San Diego home base, but...that's Indiana for you. The place that I've chosen, even though it didn't choose me.

I lift the giant pair of scissors and smile at each of my companions: Eauverte Village Board Trustee Sherri Willis, and our biggest local authority, Sheriff Mitchell. His look is stony. Unreadable. But at my signal, the three of us lever the scissors open together and cut the blue ribbon. Then, as everyone claps, the excavator operator behind us lowers the bucket and scoops up the first pile of dirt.

Sherri takes away the giant scissors, and I clap along with everyone else, letting my eyes travel over the crowd. I know that not everyone here sees me as a full person—yet. But, as I remind myself daily, that doesn't mean it's over. Opinions shift and people change, and eventually, my turn will come. Until then, I'll hang onto hope and do what I can and always, always stay true to myself. And with the money from Making Julia, this is all possible.

"Thank you for coming! Have a great day, everyone, and try to stay dry!" I say. The late-fall drizzle is turning into a more legitimate rain situation, and there's no need to force everyone to linger.

I walk straight to Cam, who's in a pink trench, holding a restless Annaleigh on her hip. Now that Annaleigh has taken her first steps, she's impossible to keep still. Maybe I shouldn't have brought her, but at the time of the decision, it seemed important. She stretches out her arms to me and her lower lip trembles, like she's just been waiting for me to arrive so she can finally melt down. Her rubber-ducky themed raincoat is bunched up around her tubby chest, and the hood with the cute duck eyes and bill, now twisted around her neck, seems more intent on strangling her than keeping her dry.

"You need a nap," I say, laughing as her arms close around my neck and she lays her heavy head on my shoulder, releasing a pathetically long sigh.

"I can't believe you want to keep living in this place," jokes Cam as we pick our way back to my car, stepping over a few wet piles of horse poop. "Is that from a horse? Disgusting."

"Hoz!" says Annaleigh, her head popping up. Cam and I laugh.

"Hey, I'm going to stop by Rita's house one last time," I say to Cam. "Would you mind taking Annaleigh home and putting her down? I can switch the car seat to your rental car."

"Sure," Cam says, reaching for Annaleigh, who strains away. "C'mere, sweetie. Come back to Auntie Cam! Let go of Mommy!" Annaleigh just buries her face deeper into my shoulder, but eventually, we get her handed over.

The Making Julia crew follows me to Rita's, a convoy in my rearview mirror. I finally sold the place, after jumping through way too many legal hoops. It turns out they'll take a Synth's money—they're just hesitant to give it. But finally, it's all been worked out, and even though I told myself I didn't ever want to set foot in this house again, that the real estate agent could handle everything, this morning I realized I do need to come here one last time. To say goodbye to the place where I loved and suffered and became a mother and lost Josh.

I unlock the front door, and that familiar stale smell washes out. Dan and Joel follow me inside, Ally and the on-site producer following at a respectful distance.

I walk through every room, feeling the bittersweet pang of memories that no one but me will hold. Even with the crew tromping behind me, it's a strange, lonely feeling, trailing my fingers over the furniture included in the as-is sale. Remembering where I sat in those obsessive weeks watching and rewatching The Proposal. I peer into the room where Rita died. Briefly sit on the edge of the bed where Josh and I slept as we drifted apart.

In the living room, my eyes sweep the space one last time.

"Ready to go?" says the producer, but I hold up a finger. A glimmer from the side table has caught my eye—that little brass figurine of the mother and child.

I pick it up. At first it's cool to the touch, but it quickly warms in my palm. I bounce it a little in my hand. Its weight feels good. Solid. Real.

My heart clenches. The sculpture should have one more figure in it. Josh, with his arms wrapped around both wife and daughter, enfolding, protecting. I squeeze the solid figure, hard. I know that Josh and I could have made it past the two blights in our beautiful story if Andy hadn't stolen our chance at a happy ending. I know in some absolute way that my love for Josh would have been enough to overcome anything, and I feel nothing but an aching tenderness toward his memory. I start to replace the figurine, then stop.

I wasn't going to take anything, but it turns out, I want this.

"What's that you're holding?" cues the producer. I look up at the camera.

"One of Josh's mom's antiques." Tears well up in my eyes, but strangely, I'm also smiling. Yes, this sculpture reminds me that it's just me and my baby now. But doesn't it also remind me of the weight of my love? I rub a thumb over the smooth gleam of their faces and think of Andy's first words to me—Can you hear me? Excited, hopeful. A terrible contrast to his last. You're fucking broken, Julia. Well, if ugly words were shouted, these two didn't hear them. If ugly things happened, they didn't see them. They are safe from the world, wholly consumed in the enclosed unity of their bond. And maybe their ignorance is something of a fantasy, but suddenly I can't help the thought... Lucky them.

I hold it toward the camera, and it catches the light. "Isn't it sweet? I think I'll put it in Annaleigh's room."