For the first time in months, maybe years, I felt light.
Not because I had won.
Because I had finally stopped losing.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The mailbox grew uneventful again. No letters from Daniel. No more consultants. No legal threats. No calls framed as concern. The magnolia tree shed most of its blossoms, but the few that remained clung stubbornly to the branches, creamy white against the green leaves.
I let life shrink back to ordinary size.
I watered the garden.
I reread a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt.
I burned the chicken one Tuesday and laughed aloud at myself because Robert had always claimed I distracted the stove by overthinking everything.
On Sunday mornings, Grace came by with pastries or flowers or simply herself. We sat in the kitchen, drank tea, and talked about small things. The weather. Her work. A book she was reading. A woman at her office who insisted on microwaving fish every Thursday.
