The Anniversary Gift My Son Gave Me Was Hiding My Husband’s Biggest Secret Chapter 08

The Anniversary Gift My Son Gave Me Was Hiding My Husband’s Biggest Secret Chapter 08

I found the foundation’s office myself.

Twelfth floor of an old office building on the south side. Not big, eight hundred square feet, divided

into two rooms.

Reception out front. Work space in back.

The day I moved in, I bought three pots of pothos. One for the front desk. Two for the windowsill

I hung a whiteboard on the wall and wrote down the names of the women who needed help.

The first was a twenty-three-year-old girl. Unmarried, got pregnant. The father’s family took her baby.

She won the case in the end. Got her child back.

The second name was a twenty-eight-year-old woman. Married for five years. Had two daughters. Her husband’s family was forcing her to have a third child.

She didn’t want to. They tormented her every day.

When she came to me, her eyes were swollen.

I found her a lawyer, arranged counseling, and contacted the women’s shelter.

Three months later, she got divorced. Took her two daughters and went back to her mother’s house.

Her name on the whiteboard got crossed out too.

The third. The fourth. The fifth.

More and more names went up on the whiteboard. More and more of them got crossed off.

Sometimes I’d sit in my office and look at those names. I’d think that in this life, doing this work meant more than revenge ever could.

Serena was dead. Owen was in prison.

The Ashfords were finished. My adoptive parents were locked up too.

But the women who’d been hurt- they were still out there.

They were like me. Lied to. Used. Treated like a tool.

But they didn’t get a second life.

They only had me.

Mid-September. The prison called. Owen wanted to see me.

I didn’t go.

He called again. Said he wanted to talk to his son.

I had my lawyer tell him, “That’s not my son. I’m not your messenger. If you want to contact him,

find the Ashfords’ relatives.”

The lawyer said Owen cried on the phone.

I didn’t say anything.

October. My biological mother got out of prison early.

She sent someone to tell me she wanted to see me. That she was sorry. That she hadn’t meant to do

it back then.

I sent a message back.

[You should have said sorry more than twenty years ago. I don’t need it now.]

November. The foundation started a crowdfunding campaign online. Called it “I Am Not A Vessel.”

In just one week, we raised more than four hundred thousand dollars.

The donors included women we’d helped, strangers from the internet, and family members of

other victims.

I made a post on social media. “Thank you, everyone. This time, I’ll keep doing this work forever.”

In the comments, people wrote, “Go, Freya!” and “You are our light.”

I looked at that post. My eyes felt a little warm.

That night, I went home. Cooked a bowl of pasta. Curled up on the couch and watched TV.

When I flipped through channels, a news segment caught my eye-the Ashfords’ villa had been auctioned off. Sold for twenty million dollars. The buyer was an out-of-state businessman.

The camera cut to the villa. The yard was empty. No alpaca. No flowers. Nothing.

i turned off the TV.

The pasta was a little overcooked. But it still tasted good.

My phone buzzed. A text from the hermit sage.

[Freya, how are you doing these days?]

I replied: [Pretty well. Sage, that amulet you gave me back then? I still have it.]

[Why keep it? The matter’s over. Throw it away.]

[I can’t. It’s my second life.]

The sage didn’t reply.

I put down my phone and walked to the window.

The city lights were bright outside. Fireworks exploded in the distance.

Someone somewhere was celebrating.

I opened the window. Cold air rushed in.

Down below, a mother walked past holding her child’s hand. The kid had a balloon and was hopping

around.

I watched them. No envy. No sadness.

I just thought-there’s still a lot of beautiful things in this world.

I couldn’t see them before. Because my eyes were covered in spit.

Now they’re clean. I can see everything.

I closed the window.

The pasta was gone. I took the dishes to the kitchen and washed them.

When I lay down in bed, something came back to me.

The day I died in my past life, the weather was like this too. Not hot, not cold. The wind was light.

My soul floated near the ceiling. I watched Serena take over “my” body.

Back then, I thought: if I could do it over, I’d make everyone pay.

Now they’ve paid.

But I’m not as happy as I thought I’d be.

I turned over and closed my eyes.

No nightmares.

No spit.

No one going ptooey in my ear over and over.

I fell asleep.

The next morning, sunlight hit my face.

I picked up my phone and saw a message from my colleague at the foundation.

[Freya, we’ve got a new case today. Twenty-two years old. Her boyfriend tricked her into surrogacy. She says she wants to meet you.]

I replied: [Set it up. Two o’clock. I’ll buy her a milkshake.]

Got up. Washed my face. Brushed my teeth.

In the mirror, my face looked healthy. No red veins in my eyes. The corners of my mouth even

curved up a little.

I smiled at myself.

A new day had begun.