Looking around at the luxurious icons of my old life, I find I’m not jealous of the Olivia who lived here. The delighted, directionless girl who trusted her family to be there for her. Who imagined the future would look like the past, but better. I pity her. She had no idea what was coming. She didn’t know to protect herself from heartbreak. And she didn’t know what she was capable of. I’m proud I’m no longer her.
