But other relationships had room to continue in different forms.

Helen and I could still choose kindness without pretending nothing had happened.

When I arrived home, I found a postcard from Connor.

It showed a modest mountain landscape, and the message was brief: he hoped I was well.

I put it beside the other personal papers.

I did not reply immediately, and I did not feel guilty.

The small freedoms were adding up: the freedom to keep a friendship, to decline a conversation, to tell an uncomfortable truth without turning it into a war.

They were not the kind of victories anyone would put in a headline.