She had wanted, for so long, to be seen by this man, and she realized now, looking down at him, that his seeing her was no longer of any value to her whatsoever.

She had spent her whole marriage organizing herself around his gaze — earning it, missing it, grieving its withdrawal.

And somewhere on that staircase she had simply stepped out of its reach, and discovered that the sun still rose, that she was still entirely herself, that a person’s worth had never once depended on whether the least worthy person in the room could be made to acknowledge it.

That was the real freedom the evening bought her, worth more than the sixty-four percent, worth more than the applause.

Not that he finally saw her.

That she no longer needed him to.