I didn’t need my mother’s permission to be an authority on my own structural calculations.

I put the blueprint back in my briefcase, zipped it shut, and rested my hands on the leather strap.

Monica was at her kitchen counter chopping garlic when I pulled my heavy suitcase through her front door at seven o’clock.

The warm smell of olive oil and baked sourdough filled the hallway as soon as I shut the door behind me.

I carried my duffel bag into her spare bedroom and set it on the braided rug beside the small oak desk.