The divorce was finalized in June, fair and unhurried. I kept the house, the tin of peppermints, and my shoeboxes. I continued doing bookkeeping and started preparing taxes for neighbors who paid me and thanked me for my work. Harold occasionally called, but our conversations became less frequent. I no longer felt responsible for making him comfortable or explaining why I had chosen myself. Some people thought I should have tried harder to save the marriage. I knew how much harder I had already tried during those forty-four years.

These days, I sit at my kitchen table with a cup of tea that stays hot because nobody interrupts me to demand something. My little business keeps me busy, and my name hangs proudly beside the front door. Sometimes I remember the woman who spent decades taking whatever was left after everyone else had taken what they wanted. I wish I could tell her that she deserved better much sooner. But I don’t regret finding my courage, even if it arrived late. For forty-four years, I took what was left. Now I decide what stays.