When I finally did, Nathan was kneeling again so Nora could show him where the fox’s tail had turned into what was clearly, to her, a rocket.
And I felt it then—not forgiveness, not vindication, not grief.
Completion.
Later that night, after dinner, after bath, after Nora had insisted on two stories and one extra sip of water and a detailed discussion of whether foxes like peanut butter, I stood in my kitchen rinsing plates while the dishwasher hummed.
The apartment smelled like dish soap and basil and the faint sweet scent of my daughter’s shampoo lingering in the hall. Sunday’s casserole dish from Roz was still in the drying rack because some things in life should remain predictable. Elias had gone home with a kiss to my temple and a promise to call in the morning. The river beyond the windows was dark, but the city lights made soft broken lines on the water.
I thought about the woman I had been when Nathan told me not to wait up.
How quiet she had become inside her own life.
How easy it was, little by little, to mistake disappearing for peace.