The man who had tried to make me feel insane was now trapped in a reality of his own making.

I sat in my father’s corner office on the top floor of the Hartwell Civic Group.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the polished oak floor.

A thick stack of legal documents lay before me.

My father’s lead attorney, a sharp-eyed woman named Margaret, pointed to the signature line.

“These are the final filings for the divorce and custody,” Margaret said.

I picked up the heavy silver pen.

“I want to make a change before we submit them,” I said.

Margaret tilted her head. “What kind of change?”

“I want to formally reclaim my name,” I said.

“Evelyn Rose Hartwell.”

“And I want Maisie’s surname changed to Hartwell as well.”

My father, sitting in the leather chair near the window, smiled softly.

“It will be done,” he said.

I signed the papers, feeling the weight of the last two years slip away.

But I knew reclaiming my identity was only the first step.

“There is something else,” I said, looking at my father.