When the vans pulled away, the house went so quiet I could hear the tide. I made eggs and toast, for one, and ate them on the deck while the sky turned from gray to pink. I did not feel triumphant. I felt like someone setting down a bag they had carried since childhood. I was the one who made breakfast for everyone growing up, standing on a stool at the stove while my parents slept. Nobody ever asked me to. They simply assumed, and I never said no, so the assumption hardened into a rule.

Tessa called at noon, furious, and again at three, much quieter. She admitted she had expected me to say yes because I always had. “I never learned to make breakfast,” she said, “because you always did.” It was not an apology, but it was honest. Mom phoned that night. She said she had not understood the villa was the only place where I could breathe. I did not argue and I did not rush to comfort her. I let the silence sit between us, and for once it was not heavy.