“Maisie, I’m not asking you in front of a crowd or in the middle of a fresh wound,” he said. “I’m asking after really getting to know you. Do you want to share your life with me?”

I looked over at my father, whose eyes had filled with tears he wasn’t bothering to hide.

“Yes, Shawn,” I said. “I do.”

We married three months later — in the same community center where Tristan had tried to humiliate us. We chose not to change the venue. For me that room no longer meant humiliation.

It meant the truth.

The neighbors made flowers for us again. My aunt cooked another enormous feast. The workers who’d finally gotten their stolen wages back came with their families.