Echoes of Generations

Women Rise with a Legacy That Won’t Be Silenced

Image created by Marylee in Canva

The women gathered on Riley’s expansive veranda as the air shifted slightly, cooling them after laboring over Riley’s jumbo pots of flowers and perennials. The scent of freshly watered plants and soil mingled with the rich aroma of dark red wine recently opened to breathe.

Riley stretched her legs out, sipping her wine. “I can’t thank you all enough. You made quick work on what would have taken me much of the day.”

“I enjoyed myself, Riley. Gardening’s a good excuse to slow down and think.” Val walked over to get a glass of lemonade. “I’d better have more of this before diving into the wine. Can I get you something?”

Skylar and Riley shook their heads.

Skylar leaned back in her chair. “Speaking of thinking… what do you hear from Quinn these days?”

Riley tilted her head. “She called this morning. She’s happy enough, I think. But something feels… off.”

Skylar’s brow lifted. “Off how?”

“She tells me about all these amazing sites and trips, but she’s always alone. If I ask about Robbie, she just says she’s busy and changes the subject.”

“That is strange,” Skylar murmured. “They should still be in their honeymoon phase.”

Val nudged Skylar with a grin. “You should know, Skylar. You’ve got a keeper in Jim. He’d move heaven and earth for you.”

Skylar chuckled, taking a sip of wine. “I have been incredibly lucky. Later in life or not, a good man is a fortunate find.”

Val sighed. “Relationships are complicated, no matter the age.”

Skylar exhaled. “That’s the thing. Women like us—we spent years proving ourselves to get a seat at the table.”

Riley leaned forward, swirling her wine glass. “When I started my architecture business, men called me ‘ambitious’ as if it was a bad thing. Like I should be grateful for whatever clients they sent my way.”

Skylar smirked. “Try being one of the first Black female archaeologists in the country. I lost count of how often men assumed I was the assistant, intern, and note-taker. And if I spoke up? I was ‘aggressive’ or ‘too emotional.’”

Val nodded. “In medicine, women are invisible by default. But when you get older? You become a shadow. I watched patients in their seventies and eighties get dismissed outright—as if their lives and needs no longer matter.”

Skylar glanced at her. “You must have seen it all in nursing.”

Val sighed. “I did. And I lived it, too.” She traced the rim of her glass. “After Steve died… people just stopped asking about me. Being a widow meant I no longer had a future. Like I was supposed to fade away or hurry out and find another man.”

The group went quiet.

“I’m sorry, Val,” Riley said softly.

Val managed a small smile. “It’s been years now. But I still notice how people talk around me instead of to me. The way women my age disappear from the world unless they’re someone’s grandmother or a charity case.”

Riley shook her head. “That’s frustratingly true. And yet, the world expects us just to accept it.”

Val exhaled. “We spend our lives caring for others, and when we finally have time for ourselves, society acts like we don’t exist.”

Skylar shook her head. “That’s exactly it. No matter what we’ve built or how much we’ve done—we must fight to be seen.” Skylar huffed. “Well, they’ll have to get used to the fact that we’re not going anywhere.” ”

“And what’s ridiculous,” Val continued, voice steadier now, “is that society adores old things— a finely aged wine, an antique table, vintage jewelry. We call them treasures. We admire how they’ve stood the test of time.”

She took a slow sip of lemonade before adding, “But when it comes to people? We’re just… old. Irrelevant. Feeble. Like our pasts don’t matter. And no matter how vital we are now, we don’t matter.”

Skylar let out a quiet breath. “That’s exactly it. No matter what we’ve built or how much we’ve done, or doing, we must fight to be seen.”

Val nodded. “And that’s what Whitman’s doing. He’s trying to make Raven invisible. Irrelevant. He wants to rewrite the rules so people like him are the only ones who count.”

Riley’s fingers tightened around her glass. “They always do.”

She set the glass down. “Men like Whitman? They may talk smoother and dress sharper, but they’re cut from the same cloth. They want control. They want to be the ones who decide who gets to belong.”

Skylar raised her glass. “Then I say we remind him whose world this is.”

The others grinned and clinked their glasses together in agreement.

A knock on the back gate interrupted them.

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