She learned that staying small to keep the peace was its own kind of violence. Stepping out of his orbit, she faced the raw question: who was she without his last name, his spotlight, his script for her life? The answers came slowly, in unremarkable yet radical acts—making her own decisions, holding boundaries, rediscovering laughter that wasn’t staged for cameras or crowds.

Her faith did not erase the past; it reframed it. In the quiet of prayer, she released the need to rewrite what had already broken and instead asked for the strength to live differently. Serving others stitched meaning into the spaces where bitterness once lived. She stopped auditioning for worth and started inhabiting it. Now, at 88, her story isn’t about the man the world remembers, but the woman she finally chose to be—whole, honest, and unmistakably herself.