When he was strong enough to visit, he stood in my living room and looked at the empty wall where Thomas’s enormous photograph had hung.
“Something missing?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Something is gone.”
Together, we carried new plants to the windows.
I replaced the books that had been damaged and rehung the simple artwork I loved.
I threw away the floral sofa cover.
I donated the robe.
The blue mug took longer.
For weeks, it sat untouched beside the sink because I could still see Mrs.
Higgins’s lipstick on the rim.
One morning, I washed it carefully and made coffee.
Then I carried it to the window.
The apartment was quiet again, but it was not the same quiet I had imagined during that long trip home from Pine Valley.
It was stronger.
Chosen.
Mine.
Thomas had believed the deed was merely a piece of paper and my signature was only a shape he could copy.
He was wrong about both.
The deed recorded ownership.
My signature recorded consent.
And neither my home nor my consent had ever belonged to him.
