I drove for three days with a fold-out map on the passenger seat, a single yellow highlighter line from the phone company's retirement party to this duplex.
The duplex is half mine, half my sister-in-law's. She has her own side, her own door, her own bed. Mine is a queen.
First morning, I went to the coffee shop downtown. The barista asked for my name. I spelled it. She spelled it right on the cup.
That little thing—a name spelled right—felt like a welcome.
I came back home and spread the map on the kitchen table. The highlighted route was the whole story of my leaving.
At night, I lay down on the left side of the queen bed. The right side stayed smooth and cool.
For forty-seven years I slept on one side of a bed that was half hers. Now it's all mine. I don't know what to do with all that space.
I reached my hand across the empty half. The sheet was cold. I thought maybe I'd get used to it.
Or maybe I'll buy a smaller bed. But not yet.