The divorce was quiet and quick. Daniel moved into his mother’s spare room, and after the judge listened to the recording, there wasn’t much left to argue about. Within the year, I sold the apartment and rented a small place with a window overlooking a garden. Margaret eventually sent me a short letter, only three lines long. There were no excuses, only the truth her sister had already given me.

I didn’t answer, but I didn’t burn the letter either. One Sunday that autumn, I cooked for myself, one dish at a time, and carried it to the window. For six years, I had mistaken patience for love. I had believed enduring everything proved I cared. But sitting there alone, eating something I had prepared because I wanted it, I finally understood the difference. Patience is only love when it is freely chosen. This time, I chose myself.