I ordered pizza.
Rebecca stared at the boxes piled in my kitchen.
“You’re not cooking?”
“No.”
“You always cook on moving day.”
“I changed my mind.”
She grinned.
“I’m starting to enjoy that sentence.”
We ate from paper plates on the patio.
Nothing remarkable happened.
And that was remarkable.
No speeches.
No dramatic promises.
Jack talked about science class.
Emily demonstrated a dance she had learned at school.
Daniel complained about an accountant.
Rebecca told Linda a story that made her laugh so loudly the neighbor’s dog barked.
I looked around the table and realized I was not outside my family.
I had simply changed my address within it.
The months that followed were not perfectly smooth.
Real change rarely is.
The first time Rebecca called and said, “Can you pick up Emily?” I automatically said yes.
Then remembered I had pottery class.
I nearly canceled.
Instead I said, “I can’t today.”
There was a pause.
Then Rebecca replied, “Okay. I’ll arrange something.”
No disappointment.
No pressure.
I spent the afternoon creating a bowl so crooked Linda called it “an architectural warning.”
I displayed it proudly.
Daniel struggled too.
He occasionally arrived without calling.
The third time, I made him stand on the patio while I finished a phone conversation.
