Chapter 10 - The Horizon
On October 24th, exactly one year after my myomectomy, I sat on my balcony in SouthEnd at ten o'clock in the morning.
The autumn air was crisp, brilliant, and cool, the trees along the rail trail blazing with scarlet, amber, and gold leaves.
Sitting on my small teak table was a hot cup of black coffee, a plate of fresh almond croissants, and a single, signed legal document that had arrived by courier an hour earlier from the Mecklenburg County Clerk of Court.
DECREE OF ABSOLUTE DIVORCE – ROSSI V. VANCE.
My name was legally restored to Erin Rossi.
I was thirty-four years old.
I was fully healed, physically and emotionally.
My bank account was my own. My career was thriving. My apartment was filled with light, music, and art.
My phone vibrated on the table.
It was a text from my mother: Thinking of you today, my brave girl. Happy New Beginning.
I smiled, sending her a heart emoji, then set the phone down on the wood.
I stood up, walked to the railing of my balcony, and took a deep, clear breath of the October air, letting it fill my lungs, my chest, my body—a body that belonged entirely, undeniably, and beautifully to me.
The sun broke through the autumn clouds, bathing the Charlotte skyline in brilliant golden light.
May you like
I didn't look at the clock. I didn't wonder where Michael was. I didn't care who was parking the car or who was sitting in the empty chairs of the world.
I turned around, walked back inside my bright, quiet home, and closed the door softly behind me.
