It is a big house for 1 person.
She thought about the neat garden, the perfectly arranged kitchen cabinets, the quiet study, the man who ate alone and read alone and moved through his large, beautiful house like a person who had made peace with his own silence.
She thought about her mother’s small apartment, where everything had been just enough, where the needle moved in and out of fabric by the window, where the birthday cakes were small and slightly lopsided, and everything was warm with being loved.
She thought about her father, the one whose name she carried as a question, not an answer.
His name was Simon. He chose not to stay.
The bus came. She got on. She found a seat by the window. She watched the city go by and let herself feel the thing she always felt when she was about to start something new: a small, steady hope. The kind that does not shout. The kind that simply shows up every time, no matter how many times the world has given it reason not to.
Whatever this new job was, she would do it well. She always did.
Monday came the way Mondays always do, quickly and without asking if you were ready.