Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would lose consciousness and wake up with unexplained aches and pains. My husband would only laugh and say, “You’re just out of shape, that’s all.” After the fourth ride, I secretly slipped a voice recorder into my purse and said nothing. That night, I listened to a phone conversation between the two of them that revealed my blackouts had never been accidental.

“No,” I said.

“I think I needed to remember that the world is bigger than what happened in that car.”

By then, I had accepted Helena’s promotion.

I mentored junior analysts and occasionally caught myself saying the patient things my first supervisor had said to me.

My balcony was crowded with plants.

My mother had taught me to make her lemon cake without burning it.

I sometimes went out for dinner with friends and came home later than I intended, not because someone else had decided where I should be, but because I was having a good time.