I never lived in the Greenwich estate again.

The grand dining room where I had been demeaned became a legal consultation hall.

The guest rooms became quarters for women rebuilding their lives.

And the kitchen — the kitchen where I had knelt to pick shattered glass off the floor while my husband drove away with his mistress — filled up every morning with women brewing coffee and telling their stories, first haltingly, and then, over weeks, with something that sounded like freedom.

Above the front entrance I had a bronze plaque installed.

It reads: Your worth remains absolute, even when others refuse to see it.