The day the shutters came down for good, I found the motel notepad under the register. A phone number. Nothing else.
The woman who sublets the room upstairs had left it there, maybe six months ago. She said call if I ever needed a hand.
I never called. I told myself I didn't need help. That was a lie.
The shop had been bleeding money for a year. I kept it going out of sheer stubbornness.
That evening, the last light off, I dialed the number. She answered on the second ring.
"It's yours," I said. "The shop. I'm leaving the key under the mat."
She laughed, soft and warm. "I wondered when you'd stop fighting."
I sat in my car and watched the dark storefront. The shutters were down. The key was under the mat.
I kept the notepad. It's in my glovebox now. A reminder that the hardest part of becoming yourself is letting someone else have a turn.