Chapter 10 - Breakfast Made Only for People Who Know
On the second anniversary of the annulment, I changed the locks again.
Not because I needed to.
Because I wanted to.
The locksmith asked if I had lost a key.
I thought of Hunter.
Joyce.
Brooke.
The overturned table.
The first safe cup of tea in Mrs. Alvarez’s apartment.
“No,” I said. “I just like knowing who gets in.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense.
It did.
That evening, I stood in my kitchen under the pendant lights.
The cabinets were still white.
The floor had been refinished where coffee and milk had stained it.
The island edge still had a faint mark from where my shoulder hit it, but only I knew where to look.
I made breakfast for dinner.
Pancakes.
Eggs.
Bacon.
Fresh coffee.
I set one plate at my little round table.
Then I sat down slowly, picked up my fork, and smiled.
No one told me to serve.
No one told me to apologize.
No one told me to learn my place.
Because I had.
My place was not behind Hunter.
Not beneath Joyce.
Not serving Brooke.
May you like
Not waiting for Leonard to grow a spine.
My place was inside the life I built, with the key in my own hand, the door locked behind me, and breakfast made only for people who knew how to sit at my table without mistaking kindness for ownership.
