I turned the formal dining room, where we had performed so many pleasant lies over pot roast, into a wide bright studio annex where Anwen does her homework at a big table while I work at mine.

I moved the furniture until the light fell the way I liked.

It took months, done on weekends, a little at a time, and when it was finished the house no longer felt like a place where something had died.

It felt like a place where something had started.

There is a professional satisfaction in that I won’t pretend I don’t feel: I spent my career making broken and dated spaces into homes people love, and it turned out I could do it for my own.

I have thought about why I feel no urge to gloat, and I think it is this: gloating would mean the story was still about him, and I spent twelve years with my story bent around him, and I am not interested in doing it a day longer.