With her newfound notoriety came questions from strangers that made her skin crawl. Did Charlie have life insurance? How do you sleep at night knowing what your husband did?
In fact, Monville didn't sleep at night. She tossed and turned, grieving over her husband and the deaths he caused, and worrying about her children's future.
But with Scripture and prayer, in reaching out to God and hearing his reply in shouts and whispers, feeling his fatherly care in signs and wonders that people of lesser faith might take for coincidences, Monville said she found healing.
On the day of the shooting, after Charlie's frightening call, she saw a vision of God's hand catching a falling flower petal just before it hit the ground, Monville said.
And that's just what God did for her, she said, every time she faltered.
She saw God's hand when the Amish attended Charlie's funeral, when neighbors sent baskets of food, and strangers filled her mailbox with supportive notes.
Most importantly, Monville said, she felt God's strength when she had to tell her children that their father had made some very bad choices, and some people had died, and he had died, too.
"Over and over again," Monville writes, "(God) broke though my pain, revealed his presence, and restored my hope."
Along with hope restored came another miracle, Monville said: She no longer cared what other people thought.
Marie needed that fearlessness when, just four months after the shooting, she told her family she was engaged to a family friend, Dan Monville.
She and Dan, a divorcé, had bonded after the shooting as they supervised play dates with their young children. She felt a connection with Dan as their families bonded, she said, which ripened into love.
Maybe Dan was the right man, her family said, but it was definitely the wrong time.
Marie had doubts, too. It was so soon after the shooting. But she felt God whispering to her, telling her that Dan was the man she should marry.
Marie said she wrestled with that revelation, fasting and praying for days. Again, one of those signs and wonders -- the kind that others might take for happenstance -- broke into her life.
Early one morning in December 2006, Marie awoke to hear her Christmas tree tumble with a crackling crash.
Each year, she and Charlie had exchanged Christmas ornaments, their own family tradition. Only two broke when the tree fell, Monville said, the first and last Charlie had given her.
"At the precise moment I noticed this," she writes, "I heard the words 'It is finished' echo through my heart and mind."
Dan and Marie were married in May 2007, seven months after the schoolhouse shooting. They now live in the house with Charlie's rosebush, their five children are healthy and happy, Monville said, the youngest potty-training and the eldest applying for driver's permits.
Sipping a cup of coffee in her tidy kitchen last week, Monville said she relishes her return to routine, dropping the kids off at school, grocery shopping. "Normal mom" stuff.
She keeps the letter Charlie left and reads it from time to time, even though some parts leave her feeling shaky. Monville also keeps cartons full of letters sent from strangers around the world. She tries not to dread the arrival of Oct. 2, but still finds her eyes fixed to the clock each year, remembering when Charlie left her work, when he called, the day's devastation.
Monville said she has spent years trying to remove the "the shooter's wife" label -- but in a way, she embraces it now, as long as she gets to tell the rest of the story.
It's the story of how the milkman's timid daughter, the murderer's grieving wife, became of all things a joyful messenger, telling everyone who'd listen about the grace of God's love.