Carl twisted the new lock into place.

The click was soft.

I almost cried again.

When he handed me the new keys, they felt heavier than they should have.

“There you go,” he said. “No old key will work now.”

No old key will work now.

I repeated that sentence in my head while signing the receipt.

After he left, I loaded the snack boxes into my trunk and drove them to a daycare near the Methodist church. The director, a round-faced woman named Paula, looked startled when I carried in the first box.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “This is a lot.”

“I’m sure.”

The building smelled like crayons, floor cleaner, and peanut butter. Children’s drawings of suns and lopsided houses covered the walls. A little boy in a dinosaur shirt waved at me from a plastic table.

Driving home, I felt light and guilty at the same time.

That was the strange thing about taking back your own life. It did not feel clean at first. It felt like stealing something, even though it had always belonged to you.

I stopped at the grocery store and bought things I liked.

Good tea with bergamot. Sharp cheddar. A loaf of crusty bread. Strawberries. Dark chocolate with sea salt. A jar of olives. Coffee that was not on sale. One small bottle of white wine I had no intention of sharing with anyone.

At the register, the young cashier said, “Having a party?”

I looked at the items and smiled.

“No,” I said. “Just dinner.”

Back home, I put everything away slowly. My refrigerator looked almost bare without yogurt tubes and gallon jugs of fruit punch. My pantry shelves had space between things. Space. I had forgotten how luxurious that could feel.

Around noon, Madison’s messages began.

Madison: For weekends, Milo naps at 1. Harper gets cranky without her pink blanket. Noah can’t have red dye after 6. Lily has dance practice Saturdays. Ethan can help with the little ones but don’t let him play video games too long.

Then a second message.

Madison: Also please plan activities. They get bored at your house.

I made tea.

Another buzz.

Madison: We’ll drop them Friday at 5:30 and pick them up Sunday after dinner.

Sunday after dinner.

I laughed once, but it sounded wrong in the quiet kitchen.

Tyler wrote in the family group chat an hour later.

Tyler: Mom, we appreciate this. We really need the break.

Again, not one question.

I opened my calendar on the kitchen table. The sunlight coming through the window made a bright rectangle over the dates. For years, my weekends had been filled in pencil because Madison’s plans always changed. I used pencil because I had trained myself not to trust my own schedule.

This time, I picked up a pen.

Not pencil.

Pen.

I wrote one word across Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Lake.

The room seemed to hold its breath.