Eight months later, warm morning light filled her kitchen. She’d repainted the walls a bright cream, replaced the broken cabinet, and planted red roses under the window.

I walked in to find her swaying to the radio while the coffee brewed.

“Do you miss him?” I asked, smiling.

She paused, looking out at the garden. “I miss who I was before I met him.”

“You’re still her, Mom.”

“No,” she said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “I’m stronger now.”