Chapter 18
A year after the coffee, I hosted dinner in my apartment.
That was harder than court.
Court had rules.
Dinner had memories.
The table had been replaced.
The old one was evidence, then trash.
The new one was round, light wood, chosen by me, paid for by me, delivered while I stood there holding the receipt like a deed of independence.
Natalie came first.
Then Elise.
Carmen.
Maya.
Olivia.
Even the ER nurse, Marisol, came after her shift with store-bought pie and exhausted kindness.
We ate too much pasta.
Burned garlic.
Laughed about terrible men only after making sure nobody needed to cry first.
Halfway through dinner, Olivia raised her glass.
“To Skylar’s no.”
Everyone lifted glasses.
My throat tightened.
I looked around the room.
Women Derek would have preferred separated.
Silent.
Ashamed.
Instead, they were in my home, eating from my plates, laughing under my lights.
I stood.
“I want to say something.”
The room quieted.
“I used to think owning this apartment meant I was safe. Then I learned walls cannot protect you from someone you let inside.”
My voice shook.
“But I also learned leaving is a door you can build. With doctors. Lawyers. friends. evidence. strangers who believe you. I did not leave alone.”
Natalie wiped her eyes.
Maya pretended to inspect the wine label.
“I want this place to be used by the fund when needed,” I said. “Not as a shelter. As a planning space. A place where women can sit at a table and hear that no is a complete sentence.”
Olivia smiled.
“We can structure that.”
Of course she could.
Later, after everyone left, I washed dishes slowly.
No fear.
No footsteps behind me.
No coffee mug raised in anger.
Just warm water.
My hands.
May you like
My kitchen.
Mine.
