My daughter-in-law ordered me out of my own home during the birthday feast I prepared for her—but the city-sealed document I dropped next to her cake erased the smirk right off her face.

It was my sixty-eighth birthday.

The kitchen windows were fogged with steam, just like they had been a year ago. But this time, the house was filled with genuine laughter.

The long oak table—the one Thomas and I had bought forty years ago—was covered in a beautiful spread of food. But the people sitting around it were different.

There was Richard Vance, my shark of a lawyer, who had become a surprisingly good friend. There was Mrs. Higgins from next door, and the two church committee women who had stood by me during the scandal. There was a young single mother from my neighborhood whom I had recently rented the spare bedroom to, and her little boy was currently running toy trucks over the same dents Mark had made decades ago.

I walked out of the kitchen carrying a massive, perfectly glazed chocolate cake.

The room erupted into cheers and a slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” I set the cake down at the head of the table, pulling out my chair—the chair that belonged to me.

I looked around the room at the glowing faces of people who loved me for me, not for what they could extract from me. I looked at the framed photos of Thomas, proudly displayed back on the mantel where they belonged.

I closed my eyes, made a wish, and blew out the candles.