My hands felt strange on the steering wheel.
I hadn’t owned a car in four years.
At the first traffic light, I glanced over at her.
She had removed her graduation cap and was leaning back against the passenger seat, watching the city pass outside the window.
“You know,” I said, “I would’ve done it all again.”
Jane turned toward me.
“The car. The shifts. The sleepless nights. All of it.”
“I know.”
“But I’m glad it’s over.”
She smiled.
“Me too.”
For the next few months, life became something unfamiliar.
Quiet.
I stopped working nights.
The first evening I stayed home, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
At nine o’clock, I kept checking the time.
At ten, I made tea.
At eleven, I sat on the couch and realized something almost embarrassing.
I had forgotten how to rest.
For years, every minute had belonged to someone else.
