Chapter 11: New Allies

Reader Address: I never expected to find allies in the most unlikely places. But that’s the thing about a movement—it brings people together. People who would never have met. People who would never have spoken. But who are united by a common goal.

The morning after my father’s funeral, I woke up to the light filtering through the curtains of my room at the Ventnor house.

It was July, and the Massachusetts summer was in full bloom. The sun was warm, the air was sweet, and the world outside my window was alive with color and sound.

But I didn’t feel alive. I felt hollow. Empty. Lost.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything that had happened. The dresses, the corsets, the performance. The stripping, the hearing, the victory. The movement, the legislation, the healing. Now this: grief. Loss. The final goodbye.

I thought about my father. About the complicated, painful, ultimately redemptive relationship we’d had. About the forgiveness we’d found at the end. About the love that had always been there, buried beneath layers of expectation and control.

He was gone. I was still here.

“Are you awake?” Ivana’s voice came through the door.

“Yeah,” I said. “Come in.”

She entered, her expression cautious. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been hollowed out,” I admitted. “Like there’s nothing left.”

“That’s grief,” she said. “It’s normal. It’s part of the process.”

“I know,” I said. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t. But you’re not alone. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

I felt tears prickling in my eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d survive,” she said. “You’re a survivor. That’s who you are.”

The weeks after the funeral were a blur of grief and healing.

I spent time with my mother, trying to rebuild our relationship. We talked about the past, about the pain, about the hope for the future. It wasn’t easy. But it was necessary.

“I never understood you,” she said one afternoon. “I never tried. I’m sorry for that.”

“I know,” I said. “I forgive you.”

“Can we start over?” she asked. “Can we try to build something new?”

I thought about it. I’d spent my whole life wanting her approval, wanting her love, wanting her to see me. Now, she was offering it.

“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d like to try.”

The support group continued to grow.

Mira had become a leader in her own right, and she was now running the meetings when I couldn’t be there. The group had expanded beyond Stratford Academy, with students from other schools joining. We have over seventy members now.