cake.
I stopped in the doorway of a small room painted pale yellow.
A child had left a paper windmill on the table.
I picked it up and blew gently.
The blades turned.
For the first time in a long time, I did not feel like a woman standing in the wreckage of her life.
I felt like someone at the beginning of a road she had not chosen but would walk anyway.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
For a second, fear returned so sharply I could taste it.
Then I opened it.
It was a photograph of the sky beyond the courthouse, sent by Elise, followed by four words.
He took the deal.
I looked out through the garden doors, where my father stood in the late sun with frosting on his sleeve, arguing cheerfully with Asha about folding tables.
I deleted the message.
Not because it did not matter.
Because it no longer owned the room.
Then I walked outside into the light.
