She rearranged the living room furniture.

She painted the guest room a pale green.

She replaced a picture Garrett had chosen with a photograph from a trip she’d taken with friends before the marriage.

She did not pretend the past had disappeared; she simply made space for other memories.

One Saturday, she discovered a small packet of letters at the back of a closet.

They were notes her grandmother had written when Iris bought the apartment.

The first read, “A home should be where your shoulders come down, not where you learn to hold your breath.”