In the driveway, Margaret’s sister finally told me why. Margaret had spent her twenties cooking for a wealthy Columbus family, sleeping in a tiny room beside the kitchen and being humiliated whenever holidays brought her into the dining room. She had never forgiven the girl she once was. When Daniel married a woman who worked, earned her own money, and refused to be made small, Margaret saw everything she had been denied. Somehow, she had turned my independence into an insult against her own past.

The divorce was quiet and surprisingly quick. Daniel moved into his mother’s spare room, and after hearing the recording, the judge needed little explanation. I sold the apartment within the year and rented a small place with a garden outside the window. Margaret sent one letter containing three lines. There were no excuses, only the truth her sister had already given me. I didn’t answer. But I didn’t destroy the letter either.