Eight days before my wedding, I took a 911 call from a woman who told me she was fine three times in less than thirty seconds. Her voice was smooth and almost cheerful, but a television was blasting behind her, and beneath the television I could hear a man repeating her name with the slow, irritated patience of someone who wanted her to hang up.

Six months later.

The spring sun shone warmly over the rolling green hills of Tuscany, Italy.

Daniel and I sat on the stone terrace of a centuries-old villa overlooking a vineyard, sipping red wine and listening to the soft rustle of olive trees in the afternoon breeze.

My father had officially finalized his divorce from my mother three weeks prior, moving into a charming cottage in downtown Lexington where he spent his weekends gardening and attending trivia nights with Daniel and me.

My mother and Natalie had moved together to a small town in Florida, completely isolated from their former social circle, surviving on what little remained of their vanity.

I pulled out my sketchbook—a habit I had taken up during our honeymoon—and began drawing the rustic Italian landscape.

Daniel walked up behind my chair, setting his hands gently on my shoulders, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. "What are you working on, Mrs. Mercer?"

"Just recording history," I smiled, leaning back against his chest.

From my leather tote bag, I pulled out a small, framed photograph that Rachel had given us as a wedding gift.

It was a photo taken at the end of our wedding night.

In the picture, I was standing in the center of the barn dance floor wearing my knee-length, cut-down metallic-blue prom dress, with Elaine’s lace shawl draped over my shoulders, bare feet covered in oak dust, laughing uncontrollably while Daniel spun me around under the warm patio lights.

I looked at the photo, then at the golden Italian sun reflecting off my grandmother’s platinum band on my finger.

Thirteen years ago, a bitter girl in a cheap dress had tried to tell me that I was second-best, that I was difficult, that I was worth nothing more than a ruined piece of scrap fabric.

She was wrong.

I wasn't defined by the clothes I wore, the family I was born into, or the cruelty of people who needed me to be small.

I was defined by the strength it took to walk through the fire, the courage to claim my own happiness, and the unconditional love of a man who saw me exactly as I was—and chose me forever.

Daniel wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close as the Italian sunset turned the sky into shades of gold and deep purple.

"What are you thinking about?" Daniel whispered into my hair.