I unlocked the apartment and stepped inside, and the rooms smelled stale and hollow, and there was a faded rectangle on the wall where a mirror had hung, and the place was empty of their presence but full of old memory.

I sat alone at the kitchen table, and I felt no grand rush of victory, none at all.

I felt only a profound, quiet stillness, the stillness of a thing that is finally, completely over.

A week later, Sophia and I moved in, and she ran through the hallway holding her stuffed rabbit, shouting, “Mommy, is this where I get my own bedroom?” “Yes, sweetie,” I said.

“Right here.” And that evening I made chicken noodle soup for dinner.