My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

Harold hasn’t called again.

Vivian sent a single text message.

I’m sorry.

Two words. No follow-up.

I read it. I didn’t respond. I’m not ready. I may never be. That’s allowed.

Paige started therapy. Garrett moved back in a month ago on the condition they continue counseling.

D told me Paige visited Ruth at the nursing home last week. First time in over a year. She brought flowers. Ruth said Paige looked different. Quieter. I don’t know what that means yet, but it’s something.

Marcus and I are working on a new project together. A historic schoolhouse in the Shenandoah Valley. Small budget, big heart. The kind of work that reminds me why I chose this career.

I eat breakfast alone most mornings. Coffee, toast, the news.

But alone isn’t the same as lonely. I learned the difference when I stopped sitting at table 14.

This morning, I stand in front of my bedroom mirror. Navy blazer. White blouse. Hair pulled back.

On my dresser, the invitation to the Millbrook Town Council presentation. My name printed in clean black type.

Thea Lindon, Senior Architect.

Not T. Mercer Lindon. Not Drew’s name. Not a hyphenation for professional convenience.

Just mine.