I did not go to the restroom.

I walked past it, down the quiet hallway, toward the host stand at the front of the restaurant, and with every step I felt lighter, not heavier, which is how I knew I had the decision right.

I was not sneaking away in shame.

I was not fleeing.

I was walking, upright and unhurried, toward the front desk of a restaurant to pay for exactly what I had eaten and not one bite more, which is a thing any adult is entitled to do, and which I had somehow convinced myself for two years that I was not allowed to do, because doing it would make me the villain of a story in which I had actually been the only person behaving well.

I reached the host stand.