Chapter 296 It Was Resonating with People I'd Never Met

Chapter 296 It Was Resonating with People I'd Never Met
OLIVIA'S POV

The past months had transformed my life in ways both subtle and profound. My schedule had found a rhythm—early mornings at my design table before Ethan woke, breakfast together, then dropping him at preschool before heading to the boutique. Evenings were sacred time with my son, filled with picture books and impromptu living room dance parties that made me laugh until my sides hurt.

I'd become obsessive about documenting Ethan's growth, filling memory cards with photos and sketchbooks with quick drawings of his expressions. Perhaps watching David's memory fade had made me desperate to preserve every moment—to create tangible proof that these precious days existed.

Most surprising was the memoir. What had begun as a therapeutic exercise—processing my journey from sales assitant to business owner, from wife to single mother—had evolved into something publishers actually wanted. My literary agent had called it "raw and unflinching," which made me laugh. Fashion had taught me that raw edges, when placed deliberately, could be the most striking element of a design.

"The Designer's Pattern for Renewal," she'd titled it. Jessica had read the manuscript first, then Andrew, and finally my mother. Their unanimous approval had given me the courage to submit it.

Linda greeted me at David's door with the weary smile of someone who'd had a challenging day.

"He's just finished his shower," she explained, ushering me inside. "Been a bit confused today."

I found David in his bedroom, freshly showered but struggling with his bathrobe belt, looking at it as if it were an alien object.

"He keeps forgetting how to tie it," Linda whispered.

My heart constricted watching him—this man who once negotiated billion-dollar deals reduced to puzzling over a simple knot.

"David," I called softly. "Let me help you."

He looked up, recognition warming his eyes. "Olivia. I was just about to call you."

"Were you?" I approached, gently taking the belt from his hands.

"Yes. No." He frowned. "I don't remember. That happens a lot now."

I wrapped the robe properly and tied the belt, struck by the intimacy of the gesture. How strange that after everything, I was back to performing such personal tasks for him.

"I have news," I said, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. "My memoir is being published. The one I've been writing about my design journey."

His eyes cleared momentarily. "That's wonderful. You were always meant to tell your story."

He suddenly clasped my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. "Remember what I told you when you opened your first store? 'To the bold belongs the fortune.'"

I smiled, touched that he remembered. "I thought that was just a line you used to impress me."

"It worked, didn't it?" His smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. "I read that somewhere. A book, maybe."

Then, without warning, his expression shifted. He straightened his posture and looked past me, his voice taking on a distant, reciting quality: "In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since..."

I froze, recognizing the opening lines of "The Great Gatsby." Following his gaze, I saw the novel on his nightstand.

"Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he continued, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."

His voice was perfect—measured, reflective—but his eyes were vacant, as if he were reading from an invisible teleprompter. This wasn't David speaking to me; he was channeling Fitzgerald's narrator without knowing it.

I took his hand, unable to stop the tears that spilled down my cheeks. "David," I whispered, but he continued reciting, lost in words that weren't his own.

That night, after tucking Ethan in, I retreated to my bedroom and finally allowed myself to break down. I pressed my face into a pillow to muffle the sobs that wracked my body. The pain was visceral—watching the brilliant mind that had once captivated me deteriorate felt like witnessing a slow-motion car crash.

I didn't hear my bedroom door creak open, but suddenly felt small hands on my shoulder.

"Mommy?" Ethan's voice was tiny in the darkness. "Why are you crying?"

I quickly wiped my tears, trying to compose myself. "Just feeling a little sad, baby. What are you doing out of bed?"

Instead of answering, he climbed onto my lap, his little body warm against mine. He reached up and patted my wet cheeks with his small hands.

"When can I see Daddy again?" he asked, his innocent question piercing my heart.

I hugged him closer. "Soon, baby. Soon."

Even as David's memory failed, something remained unchanged—the way his eyes lit up when Ethan entered a room. Whatever else he forgot, some essential recognition remained when he saw his son. Whether it was genetic memory or something deeper, I couldn't say, but it gave me hope that some connections transcended even the brain's betrayal.

My agent called the next morning while I was reviewing fabric samples in my office.

"The advance copies are generating serious buzz," she exclaimed without preamble. "We should discuss a launch event."

I sighed, fingering a swatch of ethically sourced silk. "I don't know if I want a big event. If David can't be there, what's the point?"

"The point is celebrating your accomplishment," she countered. "Have you seen the comments from early readers? They're not just liking it, Olivia—they're loving it."

She sent me a link to Instagram posts and fashion blog reviews. One caught my eye—from a former designer who'd lost dexterity in her hands after a workplace accident: "Peterson's honesty about her hand injury and recovery gave me courage to find new ways to express my creativity."

Another came from a sustainable fashion advocate: "The chapter on ethical sourcing should be required reading for every design student."

The validation felt surreal—as if these strangers were reading someone else's story, not mine.

By the time I reached the boutique that afternoon, something had shifted inside me. This memoir wasn't just my therapy; it was resonating with people I'd never met.

"Mia," I called to my sales associate as I entered the store, "let's offer 20% off everything today."

She raised an eyebrow. "Everything? Is there a special occasion?"

I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in months. "My book is being published."

Her eyes widened. "The memoir you've been writing? That's incredible! We should celebrate after closing."

Looking around at the store—my designs, my vision, my second act—I realized that perhaps celebration wasn't such a bad idea after all. Life would continue bringing changes, some wonderful, some devastating. The trick was finding joy in the spaces between the pain.

"Yes," I agreed. "Let's celebrate."