---- Chapter 9 Years passed. Like seasons turning upstate, from the vibrant greens of summer to the stark white of winter, then back to the hopeful pastels of spring. Periwinkle & Partners grew. Martha eventually made me a co- owner. Our firm became known for sustainable, community-focused architecture. We didn' t build skyscrapers that scraped the clouds for the elite. We built libraries for small towns, affordable housing for families, clinics for underserved neighborhoods. Work that mattered. Work that fed my soul Noah and | married in a simple ceremony in the courtyard of the newly completed "Concrete Daisies" hospital wing. Our friends and family were there, the sun shining, real daisies blooming in the planters |' d designed. Mom cried, happy tears this time. We bought a small farmhouse with a big porch and an unruly garden, just outside of town Our daughter, Lily, arrived a year later, with Noah' s calm eyes ---- and my stubborn chin. Life was full. Sometimes chaotic, often tiring, but always, always good. A quiet, established love settled between Noah and me, comfortable as an old sweater. One evening, | was idly flipping through a glossy architectural magazine. There was a feature on a charity event in New York City, one supporting emerging artists and community renewal projects. A photo caught my eye. Ethan. He looked older, his hair threaded with gray at the temples. The arrogance was gone from his face, replaced by a somber, almost weary expression. He was standing alone, a drink untouched in his hand, looking at something off-camera. The caption mentioned his recent, quiet foray into philanthropy, funding projects in underserved communities. A subtle attempt at atonement, perhaps. Another photo showed him looking at a display. It was a news feature about an award-winning hospital wing in upstate New York. ---- My "Concrete Daisies." The camera had caught his expression. A flicker of something profound, unreadable. Regret? Loss? Maybe just a ghost of a memory. He was still alone. Isabella, ' d heard, had never fully recovered from her "extended trip abroad," her social exile permanent. The final scene of my life, the one | cherished most, was simple. Me, at my sunlit drafting table in our farmhouse, Lily' s crayon drawings taped to the wall beside my blueprints. Sketching a new design, a playground for the local school. Noah bringing me a mug of coffee, his hand resting on my shoulder for a moment, a silent conversation passing between us. A look of quiet, established love. | glanced out the window, at our garden. Through a crack in an old concrete patio stone, a patch of daisies pushed their way towards the sun. Resilient. Beautiful. Unexpected. A living symbol of my journey. ---- My peace. My earned happiness. It was real. It was mine.