door, turned the rusty iron key in the lock, and stood in the quiet center of the house while the last of the autumn light faded across the floorboards.
She was not an afterthought.
She was not compensation.
She was not the woman sent away.
She was the owner of the house by the pond, the keeper of the letters, the subject of the photographs, and the author of whatever came next.
For the first time since Richard died, she went to bed without feeling discarded.
And for the first time in far longer than that, she slept at home.
