The sounds surrounded me.
Knives against cutting boards.
Pans striking burners.
Orders being called.
Laughter.
For thirteen years, those sounds had belonged to the worst night of my life.
Now they sounded different.
Alive.
A young cook passed carrying a heavy stockpot.
“Need help?” I asked.
He grinned.
“I’ve got it, Ms. Hale.”
I almost corrected him.
Then decided not to.
Across the room, Melissa raised her glass.
Grace did the same.
I looked at the scar on my arm.
For years, I covered it.
Victor disliked seeing it.
He once suggested plastic surgery.
“You don’t need the reminder,” he told me.
He had been wrong.
I did need the reminder.
Not of the fire.
Not of pain.
Not even of him.
I needed the reminder of who I had been before Victor convinced me that survival was something shameful.
A woman who built things.
A woman who carried weight.
