My son’s wife moved into my house. On her first day, she pointed

My son’s wife moved into my house.

On her first day, she pointed

at the door and said,

“This is my home now.

Take your food outside

and eat with your friend.”

She thought she had taken control.

But I simply smiled,

picked up the phone,

and made one call

that changed everything.

The dining room was still filled

with the smell of slow-cooked roast,

fresh bread, herbs, and the candles

I had lit before dinner

when Linda finally spoke.

Dylan stopped eating.

Sarah’s nervous smile disappeared.

My son Edward looked down

at his plate instead

of meeting my eyes.

Linda calmly pointed toward the back entrance

like she was giving instructions

to someone who worked for her.

I was sixty-eight years old,

standing inside the Chicago home

my husband Anthony and I

had spent decades building together.

We bought that house

when we were both teachers.

We saved every dollar we could.

We skipped expensive trips,

repaired old cars instead of replacing them,

and worked hard so one day

we could say the house

was truly ours.

That day had finally come.

The mortgage was completely paid.

The property taxes were in my name.

The deed belonged to me.

Not Edward.

Not Linda.

Me.

But when my son called me

one Tuesday night sounding defeated,

I opened my home without hesitation.

He told me he had lost his job

and needed time to get back

on his feet.

I gave him the security code.

I prepared the spare bedroom.

I bought Dylan’s favorite snacks.

And I told Edward

that he didn’t need to worry

about paying anything

until life became stable again.

That first night,

I cooked Edward’s favorite meal.

The same stew he used to request

after long soccer practices as a child.

I warmed homemade bread,

brought out the good dishes

Anthony and I received

when we got married,

and tried to make them feel welcome.

But Linda had already started looking

at my house differently.

Not as my home.

As something she could redesign.

By the afternoon,

she had criticized the guest room.

The bathroom wasn’t modern enough.

The closets were too small.

The furniture was outdated.

Then she casually suggested

that she and Edward

should take my bedroom

because it was “the logical choice.”

I told her no.

She smiled.

Not like someone who accepted my answer.

Like someone who believed

I would eventually change my mind.

At dinner,

she waited until everyone was sitting down.

Then she placed her hands on the table.

“I think it’s time everyone understands

that I’m running this house now,”

she said.

Edward shifted uncomfortably.

But he stayed silent.

Then Linda looked directly at me.

“You can take your plate outside

and eat with your friend.”

The words hurt.

But what hurt even more

was my son saying nothing.

For years,

I had confused avoiding conflict

with keeping my family together.

I ignored comments.

I tolerated disrespect.

I changed plans whenever Linda complained.

I apologized even when

I had done nothing wrong

because I didn’t want Edward

stuck in the middle.

But that evening,

watching my daughter-in-law try to remove me

from my own dining table

while my son looked away,

I finally realized something.

There is a difference

between creating peace

and allowing someone

to walk over you.

I didn’t yell.

I didn’t remind Edward

of everything I had sacrificed.

I didn’t bring up

the years of packed lunches,

school events, sleepless nights,

and every moment I had been there

for him.

Instead, I smiled.

At exactly 6:48 p.m.,

I stood up

and walked into the kitchen.

Linda watched me

with a satisfied expression.

She probably assumed

I was calling someone

to complain or ask for help.

Edward finally looked up.

“Mom… who are you calling?”

I picked up the phone.

Then I dialed a number

I had kept saved for years.

After two rings,

Gabriella answered.

“Gabriella,” I said calmly,

keeping my eyes fixed on Linda,

“it’s time.”

The confidence on Linda’s face disappeared.

Then Gabriella asked me one question.

And when I answered yes,

Edward suddenly pushed away

from the table so quickly

that his chair scraped loudly

across the floor.

“Did someone tell you

to leave your own house?”

That was Gabriella’s question.

“Yes,” I told her.

Edward crossed the dining room

before I had lowered the phone.

“Mom, wait.”

His voice had changed.

It had lost the tired softness

he used when he needed something.

“Tell her it was

a misunderstanding.”

Gabriella heard him.

“I’m coming over,” she said.

Then she ended the call.

Linda rose slowly from her chair.

“Who is Gabriella?”

Edward didn’t answer.

I set my phone

beside the bowl of cooling stew.

“She helped your father and me

prepare our wills,” I said.

“She also helped me

when you asked me

to put your name

on the deed.”

Edward stopped moving.

Sarah looked between us.

“You asked Grandma to do what?”

“That was months ago,” Edward said.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“We were discussing the future.”

“No,” I said.

“You asked me to sign

a deed transfer.”

Linda’s fingers tightened

around the back of her chair.

I remembered that conversation clearly.

Edward had brought over pastries

from the bakery Anthony loved.

He had waited until

we finished our coffee.

Then he slid three pages

across my kitchen table.

He said adding his name

would make things easier

if I ever became ill.

The explanation had sounded reasonable

until I read the pages.

They would have made him

an owner immediately.

When I asked about that,

he called it a technicality.

I told him

I would have Gabriella review everything.

He took the papers back

before I could make copies.

For a while,

he stopped mentioning the house.

Now his family was here,

and Linda had just announced

that she ran it.

I looked at my son.

“Did you know

she planned to say that?”

“No,” he said.

His answer came quickly.

Too quickly.

“Edward.”

“I knew she was upset.”

He glanced toward Dylan.

“She’s had a hard month.”

“So have I,” Sarah said quietly.

Nobody spoke.

Linda turned to her daughter.

“We can talk later.”

“You keep saying that.”

Sarah stared down at her plate.

“We never do.”

Dylan pushed a piece of bread

around with one finger.

He was eleven.

Sarah was sixteen.

Neither child had chosen

what had happened

at my dinner table.

I pulled out a chair

and sat back down.

“Dylan,” I said,

“you can finish eating.”

Linda let out a short laugh.

“After calling a lawyer here?”

“Yes.”

I reached for my water glass.

“Especially after that.”

For several minutes,

the only sound was cutlery.

Edward remained standing.

He watched the front window

as if Gabriella might appear

before he could find

the right thing to say.

Finally, he sat.

“Mom, I lost my job.”

“I believe you.”

“We couldn’t renew the apartment.”

“You told me that.”

“I didn’t tell you everything.”

Linda shot him a look.

He ignored it.

“Our savings are nearly gone.”

A radiator ticked

beneath the window.

“Okay,” I said.

“You could have told me.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“It would have changed

how we talked about it.”

He looked at the good dishes.

Anthony had once dropped

a gravy boat from that set.

He spent three Saturdays

visiting antique shops

until he found another.

Edward knew that story.

He had come along

on the second Saturday.

The doorbell rang.

Gabriella stood on the porch

with her coat open

and a leather folder

pressed against her side.

Behind her, the sky

had turned a deep violet.

I let her in.

She greeted the children first.

Then she put the folder

on the sideboard.

“I’m here because

your mother asked me to come,”

she told Edward.

“I’d like to hear

what happened from everyone.”

Linda folded her arms.

“This is ridiculous.

I made a rude joke.”

“That’s one explanation,” Gabriella said.

“I’d still like to hear it.”

“It wasn’t a joke,” Sarah said.

Linda turned sharply.

“You don’t understand

how adults speak.”

“I understand what you said.”

Sarah’s voice shook,

but she kept looking at her mother.

“You said it

at lunch, too.”

My stomach tightened.

“At lunch?”

Sarah nodded.

“When you were moving things,

you told Dad Grandma would

get used to eating

in the kitchen

once your furniture arrived.”

Edward closed his eyes.

I looked around my dining room.

The sideboard Anthony had restored

still stood against the far wall.

The little brass clock

he gave me

for our twentieth anniversary

was ticking beside Gabriella’s folder.

Nothing had been moved.

Not yet.

“What furniture?” I asked.

Linda’s face flushed.

“We have furniture in storage.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Edward spoke without looking up.

“She thought we could bring

some of it here.”

“How much?”

Linda gave a dismissive shrug.

“A living room set.

Our bed.

The children’s desks.”

“And mine?”

Silence.

Gabriella opened her folder.

“Before we discuss arrangements,” she said,

“I need to know whether

anyone has signed anything

concerning this property.”

“No,” I said.

Edward stared at the table.

Gabriella noticed.

“Edward?”

“We haven’t signed anything.”

“That wasn’t quite the question.”

Linda took a step toward him.

“Stop answering her.”

I felt the room change.

Not because she raised her voice.

Because Edward obeyed.

He pressed his lips together.

For the first time,

I wondered how many silences

I had mistaken

for his agreement with Linda.

How many had been fear.

And how many

had been his own choice.

“Sarah and Dylan,” I said,

“would you take dessert

into the sitting room?”

Dylan looked relieved.

Sarah lingered.

“You’re not going anywhere,

are you, Grandma?”

“No, sweetheart.”

I managed a smile.

“This is my house.”

The children carried their plates away.

We waited until

the sitting room door closed.

Then Gabriella turned back

to my son.

“You called me last Thursday.”

Edward’s head lifted.

Linda looked startled.

I was, too.

Gabriella glanced at me.

“He asked whether you’d signed

a power of attorney

naming him.”

A cold feeling settled

beneath my ribs.

“What did you tell him?”

“That I couldn’t discuss

your documents with him.”

Edward gripped the edge

of the table.

“I was trying to plan ahead.”

“You were planning without me,” I said.

“I thought you’d say no.”

“I did say no.

Months ago.”

Linda stepped between us.

“We need a stable place

for our children.”

Her voice cracked

on the word children.

For a moment,

I saw more than her arrogance.

I saw someone frightened

of a storage unit,

a closing bank account,

and two children asking

where they would sleep.

I felt compassion.

Then I remembered her finger

pointing toward my back door.

Fear had not made

that choice for her.

She had.

“Are you trying

to make me leave?” I asked.

Linda looked at Edward.

He said nothing.

“Answer her,” Gabriella said.

Linda’s eyes filled.

“We thought the house

was too much for you.”

“I manage it.”

“The stairs are steep.”

“I use them every day.”

“The upstairs bathroom—”

“Linda.”

My voice was quiet.

“Did you think

I would leave?”

She swallowed.

“Eventually.”

The radiator ticked again.

Anthony and I had painted

that room ourselves.

He had blue paint

in his hair for a week

because I missed a spot

above the window.

I looked at the place

where our brushstrokes met

beneath the ceiling.

“Where did you expect me

to go?”

Linda said nothing.

Edward finally answered.

“There are nice senior apartments.”

I stared at him.

“Did you look at them?”

“Yes.”

He could barely get

the word out.

That hurt more

than Linda’s insult.

She was a guest

who had shown me

exactly who she was.

Edward was the boy

who once slept outside

my bedroom door

during a thunderstorm

because he wanted to know

I was safe.

Gabriella let the silence stand.

Then she said,

“You cannot decide

where your mother lives.

She owns this home.

She makes that decision.”

“I know,” Edward whispered.

“I don’t think you did,” I said.

Linda wiped her cheeks angrily.

“So what happens now?

You throw your grandchildren

into the street?”

“No.”

I looked toward the sitting room.

“I won’t do that.”

Gabriella pulled out a chair

but waited before sitting.

“What would you like

to offer them?”

I had opened my home

because I believed

they needed a place

to recover.

They still did.

But I could no longer

offer this one

on the terms they wanted.

“I’ll pay for a hotel

for two weeks,” I said.

“I’ll pay the hotel directly.

The children can stay nearby

and keep going to school.

During that time,

you can find another place.”

Edward’s eyes rose to mine.

“We can’t afford

a deposit.”

“I’ll consider helping

with a deposit

once there’s a real lease

and I understand the amount.”

Linda gave a bitter laugh.

“Conditions.”

“Yes,” I said.

“My help has conditions.”

The word felt unfamiliar

in my mouth.

It also felt honest.

Gabriella explained that everyone

could take the night

to pack carefully.

She would put the arrangement

in writing

so nobody misunderstood it.

If Edward and Linda refused

to leave voluntarily,

we would follow

the proper legal process.

I would keep my bedroom.

They would not move

any of my belongings.

They would not use

my name or the house

on an application

without my permission.

Edward agreed at once.

Linda looked at him

as though he had betrayed her.

“We’re sleeping here tonight?”

he asked me.

“For the children,” I said.

“One night.

Tomorrow, you move.”

He nodded.

Gabriella wrote it down.

Her pen scratched softly

across the paper.

That sound,

and the clock beside her,

were the only things

I heard for a while.

When the adults finished,

I went into the sitting room.

Dylan sat cross-legged

on the rug,

assembling a puzzle

whose box I recognized.

Anthony had bought it

during a snowstorm years ago.

Sarah was pretending

to read a magazine.

“Are we in trouble?” Dylan asked.

“No.”

“Mom is.”

“Your mom and dad

are responsible for themselves.”

I sat on the floor

beside the puzzle.

“You can be upset

with what happened.

You don’t have to

take care of it.”

Sarah put the magazine down.

“Grandma, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t tell me

to leave my table.”

“I heard her practicing it.”

She twisted a loose thread

on her sleeve.

“I should have warned you.”

“You were trying

to get through dinner.”

“I’m always trying

to get through dinner.”

The sadness in her voice

made me reach for her hand.

She held on tightly.

For a little while,

the three of us

worked on the puzzle.

Dylan found the final corner.

Then Edward appeared

in the doorway.

“They need to go to bed,”

he said.

Sarah stood.

Dylan asked whether

the puzzle could stay

until morning.

“Of course,” I said.

When they had gone upstairs,

Edward remained behind.

The overhead light was off.

Only the lamp beside Anthony’s chair

lit his face.

“I didn’t know

Linda would say that.”

“I believe you.”

Relief crossed his face

for half a second.

Then I continued.

“You did know

about the apartments.”

“Yes.”

“You knew she wanted

my bedroom.”

“Yes.”

“And you let me

welcome all of you.”

He looked toward the stairs.

“I kept thinking

I could fix things

after we settled in.”

“You were asking me

to bear the cost

while you figured it out.”

“I know.”

He sat in Anthony’s chair.

I almost asked him

to choose another.

Anthony had been gone

six years,

but sometimes I still

expected to see him there

with a pencil tucked

behind one ear

and a student’s essay

resting on his knee.

Edward touched the worn armrest.

“Dad would be ashamed of me.”

“Your father loved you.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“No,” I answered.

“It isn’t.”

He bent forward.

“I didn’t lose my job

the way I told you.”

I waited.

“I was let go

after I missed deadlines.

There’s been another interview,

but I haven’t heard back.”

“Why did you miss them?”

He pressed his palms together.

“Our rent went up.

Then Linda’s hours were cut.

I took extra contract work

after my regular job.

I stopped sleeping.”

His voice thinned.

“I didn’t tell anyone.

I thought I could

work my way out.”

I thought of him

at twelve,

hiding a failed math test

beneath his mattress.

Anthony found it

while changing the sheets.

They spent the following month

working through problems

at this very table.

Edward had always found

failure harder to share

than grief.

“That sounds frightening,” I said.

“It was.”

“But you still had choices.”

“I know.”

“Your children needed you

to make better ones.”

He nodded.

I did not hug him.

I wanted to.

I also wanted him

to feel the full weight

of what he had done

without my arms

lifting it from him.

The next morning,

rain darkened the sidewalk.

Linda carried bags

to the car

without looking at me.

She had slept badly.

So had I.

Edward called the hotel

from my kitchen

and confirmed the rooms.

Gabriella had already sent

the written arrangement.

There was no argument

about the move.

Sarah came downstairs

holding a small framed photograph.

It showed Anthony and me

at a picnic,

laughing at something

outside the frame.

“I found this

behind the guest-room dresser,”

she said.

“Grandpa’s handwriting

is on the back.”

She handed it to me.

Anthony had written the year

and two words.

Still choosing.

I remembered that picnic.

Our car had broken down

on the way there.

We arrived three hours late

with warm lemonade

and crushed sandwiches.

Anthony said we could

choose to call it ruined

or choose to stay.

We stayed until sunset.

“I’d forgotten this one,” I said.

Sarah smiled faintly.

“Can we visit

when things calm down?”

“Yes.”

I touched her cheek.

“You’re always welcome

to ask me.”

She understood the difference.

I saw it in her face.

Dylan hugged me so hard

my glasses slipped.

“Will we finish the puzzle?”

“When you come back.”

“Soon?”

“Soon.”

Linda stood by the door.

For a moment,

I thought she might apologize.

Instead she said,

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No.”

She shifted the bag

against her hip.

“I’m sorry.”

I believed she regretted

what the evening had cost her.

I did not yet know

whether she understood

what it had cost me.

“Thank you for saying it,” I replied.

Edward carried the last suitcase.

At the threshold,

he stopped.

“Mom, I’ll call

when we’re settled.”

“All right.”

“I don’t expect you

to answer right away.”

“Good.”

He gave a small,

painful nod

and followed his family outside.

I watched from the window

until their car turned

at the end of the block.

Then I went upstairs.

My bedroom looked

exactly as it had

the day before.

Yet I stood inside it

for a long time,

as if I needed

to learn that again.

I opened the curtains.

Rain traced the glass.

On the dresser

stood Anthony’s photograph,

taken on his last birthday.

“You would have said something,”

I told him.

Then I thought about it.

Anthony had loved Edward fiercely.

He had also told students

that a difficult truth

was kinder than

a comfortable lie.

Perhaps he would have stood

beside me at dinner.

Perhaps he would have waited

until afterward

and asked our son

what kind of father

he wanted his children

to remember.

I sat on the bed

and cried.

Not only for what

Linda had said.

For the months of planning

I had not seen.

For the ease

with which Edward imagined

my life could be moved

somewhere smaller.

And for the fact

that I still loved him.

Gabriella called that afternoon.

She asked whether

I had eaten.

I told her I had made tea.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I’ll have something.”

“June is coming over,”

she said.

I looked at the phone.

“Did you call her?”

“No. Sarah did.”

June had been my friend

since our children

were in grade school.

She lived three streets away,

kept a spare key

for emergencies,

and had once spent

an entire winter

bringing Anthony crossword puzzles

when he could no longer

go out to buy them.

She was the friend

Linda had sent me

outside to eat with.

When June arrived,

she brought soup,

two bowls,

and absolutely no advice.

We sat at my table.

I told her everything.

She listened,

occasionally pushing

the bread basket closer

when I forgot to eat.

At last she said,

“You know you can be sad

and still mean every word.”

“I’m beginning to.”

She looked at Anthony’s clock.

“Good.

I’ve been waiting years

to hear you say no

without apologizing afterward.”

I gave her an offended look.

She gave me one back.

Then we both laughed,

and I cried again.

The days that followed

were quieter than I expected.

I changed the security code.

Gabriella helped me review

my property records

and the documents

Edward had once shown me.

Nothing had been transferred.

I updated the people

authorized to speak

for me in an emergency.

I did those things

because I wanted

my decisions to be clear,

including to my son.

Edward sent photographs

of the hotel room.

Dylan had arranged

his books beneath the lamp.

Sarah had taped

a drawing to the wall.

I replied to the children.

To Edward, I wrote

that I hoped he heard

about the interview.

Linda sent another apology.

This one was longer.

She said she had imagined

that if she acted certain,

she would stop feeling afraid.

She admitted she had searched

for senior apartments

and talked about my house

as though it were theirs.

“I told myself,” she wrote,

“that you’d be happier elsewhere.

I never asked you.”

I read her message twice.

Then I wrote back,

“Thank you for telling me.

I need time.”

Three days later,

Edward called.

He had been offered

a six-month position.

The pay was lower

than his old salary,

but the hours were steady.

He told me about the work

without asking for money.

That was new.

Before hanging up,

he said,

“I’ve booked an appointment

with a counselor.”

I rested my hand

on the table.

“For you?”

“For me.

I keep letting things happen,

then calling it

keeping the peace.”

His words reached a place

I knew well.

“I did that, too,” I said.

“I learned it from you.”

I closed my eyes.

“Yes.

You may have.”

For years,

I had believed silence

was the inheritance

I had spared him.

I wondered how many times

he had watched me

swallow an answer,

smooth over an insult,

and say everything was fine.

“I’m learning

something different now,” I said.

“Me, too.”

A week later,

they found an apartment

twenty minutes away.

It had two bedrooms,

a narrow balcony,

and a kitchen Sarah described

as “small but normal.”

Gabriella reviewed the lease

at my request.

I paid the deposit

directly to the landlord.

Edward put the first month’s rent

on his own account.

I told him

this was a gift,

not a standing promise.

He thanked me

without negotiating.

After they moved in,

I invited the children over

on a Saturday afternoon.

Edward brought them.

Linda stayed home.

We finished the puzzle.

Dylan insisted we photograph it

before taking it apart.

Sarah helped me make bread.

While the dough rested,

she told me she had applied

for a summer art program.

She had almost kept quiet

because the fee frightened her.

“I want your parents

to look at it first,” I said.

“Then, if help would matter,

we can talk together.”

She leaned her head

against my shoulder.

“That sounds fair.”

At pickup time,

Edward waited on the porch.

The children ran ahead

to show him the puzzle photograph.

When they went to the car,

he remained beside me.

“I found something,” he said.

He held out a folded paper.

It was the estimate

from the senior apartment complex.

My name was printed

across the top.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I should have thrown it away.”

“No.

I’m glad you brought it.”

He watched me unfold it.

“There’s something else.”

He swallowed.

“I told Linda

you might agree

if we moved in first.

That was my idea.”

I looked at him.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t expect you

to forgive that today.”

“I don’t know

when I will.”

His eyes filled.

I had never said

anything like that

to my son.

The truth did not

destroy us.

It simply stood there,

asking us both

to live differently.

“I’ll keep showing up,” he said.

“That would mean more

than another apology.”

He nodded.

As he walked away,

I noticed the porch rail

had loosened again.

Anthony had repaired it

twice before he died.

For an instant,

I almost called Edward back

to ask him to fix it.

Then I smiled.

I could ask him another day.

I could ask June’s carpenter.

I could leave it

until Monday.

The choice was mine.

Several weeks passed.

Edward kept his position.

He paid me back

a little of the deposit,

though I told him

he did not owe it.

He said the payment

helped him remember

that he was responsible

for his family’s home.

Linda started picking up

more hours at work.

When she came with Edward

to collect a winter coat

they had left behind,

she asked if she could enter.

I said yes.

That small exchange

made us both pause.

Inside, she looked around

the sitting room.

“I thought you hated

this furniture,” I said.

“I said I did.”

She touched the polished edge

of Anthony’s bookcase.

“I was wrong about that, too.”

We did not embrace.

We had tea.

She told me

she was talking to someone

about the fear

that had governed

so many of her choices.

I told her

I hoped it helped.

When they left,

she thanked me

for allowing her inside.

It was a beginning.

It did not need

to become more

that afternoon.

In early spring,

I hosted a small dinner.

June came.

Gabriella came.

So did Edward,

Linda, Sarah, and Dylan.

No one arrived

with boxes or plans

for my bedrooms.

Edward brought flowers.

Linda asked where

she should put her coat.

Dylan wanted to know

whether the puzzle

was still in its box.

Sarah brought her drawing

of the house.

She had drawn it

from the sidewalk,

under a pale evening sky.

Every window glowed.

Near the front steps

stood three small figures.

I recognized the children

and myself.

“Where are your parents?”

I asked.

Sarah pointed to the porch.

They were there,

just inside the open door.

“I didn’t have enough room

for everyone on the steps,”

she said.

I looked at the drawing again.

The door was open.

No one had been pushed out.

After dinner,

Edward helped me clear plates.

He picked up the photograph

Sarah had found

behind the dresser.

“Still choosing,” he read.

“Dad wrote that?”

“Yes.”

“What did he mean?”

I told him about the picnic,

the broken car,

and the crushed sandwiches.

Edward laughed softly.

“He made every disaster

sound like an adventure.”

“Some days.”

I dried a plate.

“Other days,

we had to work at it.”

Edward set the photograph down.

“I want to work at this.”

“I do, too.”

He looked toward the dining room,

where Dylan was trying

to persuade June

that one more piece

of cake was reasonable.

“Even after what I did?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But we can only build

from what’s true.”

He nodded.

Then he picked up

the next plate.

Later,

after everyone went home,

I carried Sarah’s drawing upstairs.

I placed it near

Anthony’s birthday photograph.

From my bedroom window,

I could see the porch,

the front path,

and the place

where Edward had stood

that rainy morning

with the last suitcase.

The house was quiet.

Tomorrow I would call someone

about the loose rail.

On Tuesday,

June and I had tickets

to a concert.

Next weekend,

Dylan wanted to bring

the puzzle back.

Ordinary plans.

My own plans.

I turned off the lamp

and stood a moment longer

in the room

Anthony and I had chosen.

Then I closed the curtains

and went to sleep,

at home.