My husband slapped me across the face when I came home from work seven months pregnant, then stood beside his mother while I began bleeding on their kitchen floor. But when they mocked my “pathetic country bumpkin” father and called him themselves, they had no idea whose phone was about to ring.

One month later, I stood on the back porch of my father’s beautiful, sprawling estate in the countryside of Charlottesville, Virginia.

The air was fresh, carrying the faint scent of pine and wild clover. Rolling green hills stretched out for miles under a clear blue sky.

My father walked out onto the porch, carrying two mugs of warm chamomile tea. He handed one to me and leaned against the wooden railing, looking out over his land.

“How’s my grandson doing today?” Dad asked softly, eyeing my large, healthy bump.

“He’s active,” I smiled, feeling a firm nudge against my ribs. “I think he’s going to be a troublemaker.”

“Good,” Dad grinned, his eyes twinkling with warmth. “He comes from strong stock.”

I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling a deep, profound peace settle over my heart for the first time in years. The nightmare in Alexandria was completely over. The house had been sold, the Vance family name was ruined, and Carter was facing his upcoming sentencing hearing alone in a cell.

I had reclaimed my life, my dignity, and my future.

“Dad?” I murmured, looking over at him.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Thank you for answering the phone.”