Updated Nov 25, 2025 • ~9 min read
We found a house in Vermont. Small town. Population two thousand. Nobody knew who we were.
“It’s perfect,” I said, looking at the listing. Old farmhouse. Land. Privacy.
“It’s three hours from the nearest city.”
“Exactly. Perfect.”
We put the penthouse on the market. Listed it fully furnished. Wanted nothing from that life.
“You’re sure about this?” Paisley asked when we told her. “Leaving Chicago? Leaving me?”
“You can visit. Vermont has guest rooms.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually doing it. Disappearing. Becoming normal people.”
“We were never normal. But maybe we can fake it.”
“You’re good at faking things.”
“Not anymore. From now on, we’re aggressively authentic. Boringly honest.”
The penthouse sold in three days. To a tech CEO who’d never heard of wedding crashers or reality TV.
“That’s refreshing,” Leander said. “Being unknown.”
We packed everything. Briony’s nursery. Our clothes. Books. Left everything else.
The moving truck arrived. We watched our life in Chicago get loaded into boxes.
“Any regrets?” I asked.
“About leaving? No. About how we started? Still processing.”
“Same. I think I’ll always be processing.”
“That’s fair. Trauma isn’t linear.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“Therapy. Lots of therapy.”
We’d been in couples counseling for four months. Individual therapy too. Working through manipulation. Trust. Workaholism. Control issues.
“Think we’ll ever be normal?” I asked.
“Define normal.”
“Not constantly analyzing whether we’re performing or being real.”
“Then no. But I think we’ll get better at knowing the difference. That’s something.”
The last thing we packed was Briony. Three months old. Sleeping through chaos like a champ.
“Ready to be a Vermont baby?” I whispered. “It’s boring there. No paparazzi. No drama. Just trees and quiet.”
She yawned. Unimpressed.
“She’s already over our chaos,” Leander said. “Smart kid.”
We drove to Vermont. Briony crying for half of it. Us taking turns singing terrible songs. Being normal parents.
When we arrived at the farmhouse, snow was falling. Perfect New England postcard.
“It’s like a movie,” I said.
“It’s like we’re in witness protection. Hiding from our past.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Hiding?”
“No. Healing. There’s a difference.”
The house was bigger than photos suggested. Four bedrooms. Huge kitchen. Land that stretched forever.
“Briony will learn to walk here,” I said. “Say her first words. Grow up. Away from cameras.”
“You sound wistful.”
“I am. Not for the cameras. But for the excitement. The chaos. Part of me thrived on it.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m choosing boring. Choosing her. Choosing us. Even when it’s not exciting.”
“Boring is underrated.”
We unpacked slowly. Making the house ours. Hanging pictures. Setting up Briony’s nursery with windows overlooking mountains.
“She’ll hate it here when she’s a teenager,” Leander predicted. “Too quiet. Nothing to do.”
“Good. Bored teenagers get into less trouble.”
“Or more creative trouble.”
“With our genetics? Definitely more creative.”
That first night in Vermont, we sat on the porch. Briony asleep inside. Snow falling silent.
“I can hear myself think,” I said. “That’s weird.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I’m glad we crashed. That I’m glad I slapped you. That I’m glad Mia manipulated us. Because it led here. To this. To you.”
“That’s Stockholm syndrome talking.”
“Maybe. But I choose to see it as growth. We took something terrible and built something real.”
“The therapist would be proud of that reframe.”
“I’m full of therapeutic insights these days.”
My phone rang. Helena Drake.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said. “But you should know. Mia Barton was sentenced today. Twelve years. She won’t be eligible for parole for eight.”
Twelve years. Mia would be in prison until Briony was in middle school.
“How do you feel?” Helena asked.
“Relieved. Sad. Angry. Grateful. All of it simultaneously.”
“That’s fair. She destroyed a lot of lives. But she’s facing consequences now. Real ones.”
After we hung up, I told Leander.
“Twelve years,” he said. “That’s longer than our relationship.”
“Is it enough? For what she did?”
“I don’t know. Is any punishment enough for systematic manipulation? For weaponizing vulnerability?”
“The therapist says I need to forgive her. Not for her sake. For mine.”
“Can you?”
“Not yet. Maybe someday. When Briony’s older. When enough time has passed. When I’m not so angry.”
“Anger is valid.”
“So is forgiveness. Eventually. When I’m ready.”
We sat in shared silence. Processing. Healing. Choosing to move forward.
A week passed. Then two. We fell into routine. Briony’s feeding schedule. Walks in the snow. Cooking dinner. Normal life.
“I’m bored,” I admitted one night.
“Already?”
“Not in a bad way. Just—I’m used to crisis. Drama. Chaos. This quiet feels strange.”
“You want to go back?”
“No. But maybe I need a project. Something to do besides diapers and bottles.”
“Like what?”
“Documentary work. But different. Not exposing corruption. Teaching others. Helping people tell their own stories without manipulation.”
“That’s actually brilliant.”
“You think so?”
“You turning your trauma into purpose? Very on brand.”
I started researching. Found a local community center that needed media literacy programs. Volunteered to teach documentary basics.
“We’re teaching middle schoolers,” I told Leander. “How to tell honest stories. How to avoid manipulation. How to think critically about what they watch.”
“You’re going to create a generation of skeptics.”
“Good. The world needs more skepticism and less blind consumption.”
Meanwhile, Leander discovered he liked woodworking. Started building furniture in the barn.
“It’s meditative,” he said, sanding a table. “Physical. No spreadsheets. No strategy. Just wood and tools.”
“Who are you and what did you do with the CEO?”
“He’s retired. Possibly forever. This version of me is better.”
“This version makes furniture and has sawdust in his hair. Not sure it’s better. But it’s definitely different.”
Three months in Vermont, and we were unrecognizable from our Chicago selves.
No designer clothes. No penthouse. No cameras. Just us. Being people.
“I’m happy,” I said one morning. “Is that weird?”
“After everything? Yes. But I’ll take it.”
“Me too.”
But then Briony got sick. High fever. Lethargic.
We rushed her to the local hospital. Tiny. Under-resourced.
“We need to transfer her to Burlington,” the rural doctor said. “She needs specialists. Possibly pediatric ICU.”
The ambulance ride to Burlington was two hours. Longest two hours of my life.
Briony burning up. Not responding. Just lying there.
“She’s going to be okay,” Leander said. But his hand shook holding mine.
At Burlington hospital, they ran tests. Admitted her. Started IV fluids and antibiotics.
“Bacterial infection,” the pediatrician said. “Serious. But treatable. She’ll need to stay for observation. Possibly a week.”
A week in the hospital. Again. Briony in another NICU ward.
“We should never have left Chicago,” I said. “She’d have better care there. Better hospitals. This is our fault.”
“This isn’t anyone’s fault. Babies get infections. Anywhere.”
“But in Chicago—”
“In Chicago, we were being surveilled and manipulated. Here, we have privacy and peace. One infection doesn’t change that.”
“What if something worse happens? What if she needs specialized care we can’t get here?”
“Then we handle it. Like everything else. Together.”
Briony recovered after six days. Back to her normal angry self. Demanding food and attention.
“She’s a Cork-Duffy,” the pediatrician said. “Tough as nails. She’ll be fine.”
Driving home from the hospital, I felt different. Less certain.
“I keep wondering if we made the right choice,” I admitted. “Moving here. Isolating ourselves. What if we’re being selfish? Choosing our peace over her opportunities?”
“She’s four months old. What opportunities?”
“Future ones. Good schools. Culture. Options.”
“Vermont has good schools. And Morgana, we can always move back. This isn’t permanent. It’s just where we are now.”
“Promise? That if this doesn’t work, we can change our minds? Go back?”
“I promise. Nothing is permanent. Except us. We’re stuck together.”
“That’s both romantic and threatening.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Back home—and it did feel like home now—we reassessed.
“What do we actually want?” Leander asked. “Long term. Not just running from our past. But building our future.”
“I want Briony to have normal. Whatever that means. To not grow up in tabloids. To have privacy.”
“Same. But I also want community. People. Not just isolation.”
“So we find middle ground. Small town. But near a city. Privacy but not total isolation.”
“That sounds manageable.”
We started looking. Found a college town in Massachusetts. Thirty thousand people. Big enough for resources. Small enough for anonymity.
“It’s perfect,” I said, looking at listings. “Near Boston for hospitals. But quiet enough to be normal.”
“Should we do it? Move again? Or stay here and make Vermont work?”
“Let’s stay until spring. See how we feel. No more panic decisions. Just thoughtful choices.”
“Look at us. Being adults.”
“Terrifying.”
“Completely.”
That night, Briony slept through for the first time. Six straight hours.
We woke up panicked.
“Why isn’t she crying? Is she breathing? Did something happen?”
We ran to her room. Found her sleeping peacefully. Just sleeping.
“She slept through,” I said. “That’s normal.”
“Nothing about our lives is normal. This must be a trap.”
We watched her sleep for twenty minutes. Making sure she was okay.
“We’re ridiculous,” Leander said.
“We’re parents. Same thing.”
Back in bed, he pulled me close. “I love you. I love this life. I love that we chose each other despite everything.”
“Even when I’m paranoid and anxious and questioning everything?”
“Especially then. Your anxiety means you care. That’s beautiful.”
“That’s therapy talking.”
“Therapy works. Who knew?”
I fell asleep feeling something unexpected: contentment.
Not perfection. Not resolution of all problems.
Just contentment with where we were.
In Vermont. In winter. With our daughter sleeping. Our past behind us.
Building something new from ruins of manipulation.
Choosing ordinary over extraordinary.
Choosing each other. Again. Always.
No matter what came next.
And that was enough.
More than enough.
Everything.
Reader Reactions