Two years later.
Sophie was three years old, bright and curious and fearless.
She loved books and bugs and helping me in the garden.
She asked a million questions a day, and I answered every single one.
We had friends now. Other families in town. Playdates and birthday parties and normal, beautiful chaos.
Evelyn visited every month, and sometimes she stayed for weeks.
Katherine came twice a year, always bringing gifts for Sophie and updates on the company.
My fortune had rebuilt itself. Not through Richard’s stolen money—that stayed in trust—but through my own investments and work.
I was wealthy again.
But I didn’t live like I used to.
No mansion. No staff of dozens. No desperate need to prove anything to anyone.
Just a farmhouse. A garden. A daughter.
And it was enough.
More than enough.
One afternoon in spring, Sophie and I were planting flowers when she looked up at me with dirt on her nose.
“Mama, where’s my daddy?”
I’d been preparing for this question for three years.
I set down my trowel and pulled her into my lap.
“Your daddy made some very bad choices,” I said carefully. “And because of those choices, he can’t be with us.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“He tried to. But I’m okay now. We’re okay.”
Sophie frowned, processing this.
“Do I have a daddy at all?”
“You have me,” I said. “And Aunt Evelyn. And Mrs. Chen. And Marcus. You have so many people who love you.”
“But no daddy.”
“No daddy,” I confirmed gently. “But that doesn’t mean you’re missing anything. You have everything you need.”
Sophie considered this.
Then she threw her arms around my neck.
“I love you, Mama.”
“I love you too, baby girl.”
