The note held only two lines. “The kitchen is yours this year. I hope the recipes go as smoothly for you as they always did for me.” I set my pen down, studied the words one last time, and felt something loosen in my chest that had been clenched for six years. Then I stepped into the cold and pulled the door shut behind me.
My phone stayed off until the plane reached the runway. When I finally powered it on somewhere over the ocean, thirty-one missed calls lit the screen at once. The very first voicemail was my husband, his voice cracked and unfamiliar, whispering four words I had never once heard him say to me before.
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