Henry and I had authored our life together, as equals, by choice.

Michael wanted to take the pen from my hand entirely.

Selling my own house, in my own time, because I decided I was ready, was me holding the pen.

It looked, from the outside, like the very thing Michael had wanted, an old woman leaving her too-big house for something smaller.

But everything that matters is invisible from the outside.

He would have moved me.