Then she walked out without looking back.

Her new apartment was in a retirement community in Santa Fe. It was small, bright, and quiet. It had a balcony, clean floors, a simple kitchen, and a blooming bougainvillea outside the window.

The manager handed her the keys. “Welcome home, Mrs. Margaret.”

Home.

The word loosened something in her chest.

That afternoon, Frank and his team arranged her furniture. Arthur’s photo went on a shelf. The blue teapot he’d given her sat beside the stove. The ivory sofa looked beautiful again—not because it was luxurious, but because it was no longer surrounded by contempt.