Months later, my artwork — a painting I called “The Scarecrow Mother” — caught the attention of a local gallery. It was a symbol of everything I’d survived: exhaustion, heartbreak, and rebirth. The opening night was packed, and as people praised my work, I realized the truth — sometimes the greatest revenge isn’t anger or hate. It’s healing. It’s standing tall when someone tried to make you feel small. My husband once called me a scarecrow, but he was right in one way: scarecrows stand strong through every storm. And so do I.