For years I had seen that photograph as proof of what I had lost.

Now I saw something else: the start of a home that had helped me survive.

That night, after everyone left, the house was wonderfully still.

No footsteps overhead making me wonder whether someone was angry.

No orders shouted down the staircase before sunrise.

No rush to anticipate another person’s demands.

I made myself oatmeal at ten o’clock in the evening, simply because I felt like having it.

I added brown sugar, cinnamon, and far too many raisins.