It was the first home I had chosen on my own in sixteen years.

Moving day involved two borrowed cars, six boxes, and Lena giving instructions no one needed.

I placed the old suitcase beside the bed and set my grandmother’s letter on the bookshelf.

When I switched on the kitchen light that evening, I felt an unexpected rush of grief for the marriage I had hoped to have.

I could miss my old dreams without returning to the person who destroyed them.

That distinction took time to learn.