“Good.”

The newspaper rustled as I turned a page.

He stood there for another moment, waiting for the old pattern to return. Waiting for me to sigh, take the shirt, treat his poor planning like my emergency.

“But you always do laundry on Wednesdays,” he said.

“I always did everyone’s laundry on Wednesdays,” I corrected. “Now I do mine.”

“Tara doesn’t have time today. She has her workout class.”

I looked at him.

He must have heard it then, because his ears went red.

“I’m retired, Derek,” I said. “I am not unemployed staff. If Tara has time to work out, she has time to start a load. If you have a meeting, you have time to iron a shirt.”

His face tightened. “You’re really dragging this out.”

“I’m really done dragging your basket.”

He stared at me like I had slapped him.

Then he muttered something under his breath and went downstairs. Ten minutes later, the washing machine started with a loud, uneven thump. He had probably overloaded it. I did not get up to check.

That was new too.

Later, Tara came downstairs wearing expensive leggings and a sweatshirt that said Blessed in cream letters. She opened the refrigerator, stared inside, and made a small disgusted noise.

“Is there no sliced fruit?”

I kept reading.

She closed the refrigerator hard enough to rattle the jars in the door. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, the front door slammed behind her.

The house settled.

For the first time in months, I heard it breathe.

After breakfast, I walked slowly through the downstairs with a laundry basket—not to collect their things, but to remove them from mine.

Tara’s glossy magazines were stacked across my coffee table, all open to pages showing white kitchens and women laughing in linen shirts. Derek’s sneakers sat in the entryway where I had almost tripped over them twice. A half-empty protein drink stood on the side table, leaving a sticky ring. Two of Tara’s beige throw pillows had migrated onto my wingback chair in the guest room.

I gathered everything.

Magazines. Shoes. Cups. Chargers. A scarf. A little ring light she used for filming. I put it all in the basket, carried it upstairs, and set it outside their bedroom door.

Then I went into the guest room.

My old wingback chair sat in the corner by the narrow window, covered with a quilt my mother had made. It was faded blue, comfortable, and completely wrong for Tara’s “modern neutral aesthetic.” That was exactly why I wanted it.

I dragged it downstairs inch by inch, the wooden legs bumping softly against each step. By the time I got it into the living room, I was breathing hard, but my mood had lifted.

I placed the chair by the big front window where morning light fell across the floor.

Then I sat in it.

Outside, a squirrel ran along the fence. A delivery truck groaned past. The winter sky hung low and bright.

For once, I did not feel like a guest in my own living room.

At four, Tara came home.

The key turned in the lock. Her footsteps stopped.

“What is that doing here?” she asked.