Older cabinets.
A balcony barely wide enough for two chairs.
I loved it.
I cooked what I wanted.
Worked without interruptions.
Spent weekends hiking with Ethan and Maya when they visited.
My grandmother Evelyn called every Sunday.
She always asked something specific.
How’s work?
Did that bookshelf ever arrive?
Are those tomatoes on your balcony still alive?
She remembered.
Everyone else disappeared.
Sometimes that hurt.
Mostly, it clarified things.
Then my phone lit up one afternoon.
Richard Hale.
Dad.
I stared at the name before answering.
“You need to come home next weekend.”
No hello.
No:
How have you been?
Just instructions.
“Why?”
A pause.
“Lucas’s engagement dinner.”
Of course.
“Olivia’s parents want to meet the whole family.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“So?”
“They’re particular people.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Dad sighed.
“Delaney, don’t make this difficult.”
There it was.
The sentence I had heard my entire life whenever I failed to perform my assigned role.
“I’m not coming.”
Silence.
Then:
“What do you mean you’re not coming?”
“I mean I live in Oregon now.”
Another silence.
“You what?”
“I moved six months ago.”