That was the whole revolution, made of oak, standing in my own bright kitchen.

Evelyn’s foundation would help other invisible women get an afternoon off.

My oak table would remind me, every single day, that I was no longer one of them.

On a crisp Sunday, I carried white lilies to the cemetery where Evelyn’s ashes were interred beside her husband, and I took the small silver key from my coat pocket, though it no longer opened anything at all.

I held it in my palm.

“I did it, Evelyn,” I told the autumn wind.