I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

The drive out of Ridgewood takes me past the church. I slow down without meaning to. The wooden sign by the road has been updated. Gerald’s name is gone. The gold letters have been scraped off, leaving a pale rectangle where 12 years of false trust used to be.

I merge onto the highway. 2 and a half hours to Manhattan. The drive feels shorter than it did 2 weeks ago. Maybe because this time I’m driving towards something instead of away.

The loft is quiet when I get home. Sun through the tall windows. Nathan’s drafting table in the corner, still covered in paper cranes. On the kitchen counter, flowers from Maggie, white peianies, no card needed, an envelope from James. Nathan would be proud.

And a text from Ryan Alcott.

I’m sorry for what my ex- fiance’s family did to you. Thank you for the truth.

I set my bag down. I’m home.

Three months pass. Here is what happens.