The maples along the street had gone fiery red, and the breeze pulled the leaves loose in bright handfuls.

The house behind me was sturdy and quiet and entirely mine — the mortgage refinanced under my name, the home-equity line paid off and closed, the suffocating shadow of somebody else’s deception dissolved out of the rooms.

My father’s car pulled to the curb, and he came up the steps with a bakery box and an easy, unburdened stride.

“Morning,” he said, setting cinnamon rolls beside me.

“Your mother’s convinced you don’t eat since the promotion.”