There are no marks.

There is only a competent woman who somehow, over three years, agreed to disappear — and a husband standing beside her, looking concerned, telling everyone how worried he is about her.

But you cannot unlearn architecture.

Standing in that locked kitchen, watching my husband nod to his mother through the glass, the woman they thought they’d dismantled looked at the scene in front of her and did what she had always done best.

She started reading the structure.