Harry tried to claim the car as a “shared asset.” My lawyer calmly produced the bank records proving it had been paid for entirely with my inheritance.
Stephanie called friends, relatives—anyone who would listen—trying to cast me as heartless. “She left him on her own birthday,” she told them. “Who does that?”
The people who mattered already knew the truth.
As for the rest, I didn’t need their opinions.
I began driving myself everywhere—to work, to the store, to therapy sessions where I slowly unraveled years of being made to feel insignificant.
One Sunday, I drove to the ocean, rolled down the windows, and played music Stephanie would have hated.
Another day, I drove to my grandmother’s grave and told her I’d finally learned how to stand on my own.
Some people asked if I regretted it. If I’d been too severe. If I should’ve tried harder.
I didn’t regret a single moment.
Once you stop sitting in the back seat of your own life, you never agree to less again.
Harry said his mother deserved the front seat more than I did.
So I gave it to her—for good.
And then I drove straight into a future that had no space for either of them.
The front seat is mine now. And I’m never giving it up.
