By afternoon, the house had shifted around her. My old sweater on her shoulders. Her shoes by the door. A damp ribbon on the counter where she’d washed away Cairo dust. We did not forgive Grant; that would take more honesty than he owned. Instead, we began smaller. A shared joke over burnt pancakes. A careful goodnight. Two women at a kitchen table, passing the salt, and learning how to exist in the same truth at last.
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