One year later, I stood on the rooftop terrace of the Naomi Rowan Women’s Health Center — a clinic funded with the money they had stolen from me, and dedicated to patients facing fertility misinformation and financial abuse.

Sinclair joined me as the setting sun caught the city windows, and from inside came the soft cry of my three-month-old daughter, conceived through donor treatment after doctors confirmed what Preston had hidden from me for years. My body had never failed me.

I lifted my daughter into my arms, kissed her forehead, and looked at the life I’d rebuilt.

Preston had once called me useless because I couldn’t give him a child. In the end, I’d given myself something far more valuable.

The truth. My name. And a future no one else would ever own.

THE END.