My Fake Death Was The Punchline To His Cruel Joke Chapter 33
I sat in my car in the parking lot for a long time. Then I called Leo.
“I want to start a pro bono project.”
“For shelters?”
“Not just this one.”
I used a portion of the civil damages to establish a dedicated fund, offering free, safety-focused design services to women’s shelters across the state.
The project wasn’t named after Mara. It had nothing to do with a hundredth joke.
On the registration forms, there was only one name:
Ortiz Design.
At the first project meeting, a junior accountant expressed concern that the nonprofit work would drain the company’s resources.
I placed the drawing of the little house on the conference table.
“We will continue to take on commercial projects. All pro bono expenses will be paid from the dedicated fund. It will not affect salaries or bonuses.”
A young designer asked, “What happens when the fund runs out?”
“Then we earn more.”
After the meeting, the two designers who had been with me from the start stayed behind.
“We’re willing to volunteer one day a month—off the clock—to work on this.”
I looked at them, a lump forming in my throat.
Bennett had taught me that all relationships were transactional, built on a foundation of unequal sacrifice.
Only now was I learning that the people who truly want to stand with you don’t start by asking how much more you can endure.
Over the next six months, we completed four more safe-space renovations.
The state design association featured me on their homepage again.
This time, it wasn’t because I was someone’s wife.
It wasn’t because I was the victim in a high-profile case.
It was simply for the work.