She doesn’t lock herself in a metal box in the dark to cry where no one can see.

Chapter 28 — The Decompression Space

I spent three weekends turning a cluttered corner of the garage into what we call her decompression space.

I tore out the old shelving, painted the walls a deep, calm blue, and put in a soft chair, warm lamplight, and a few big leafy plants.

It smells like fresh pine and potting soil now, instead of paint and motor oil.

When she comes home from a draining day, she sits there for twenty minutes — soft music, a little quiet, a place to set the day down before she opens the door to the kitchen.