I made myself dinner. A real dinner. Roast chicken and potatoes and a green salad.
And for dessert, a peach cobbler, from scratch, with cinnamon.
I set the table for one. A real plate. A cloth napkin. A glass of wine.
And I sat down in the middle of my own table, in the best chair, and I ate it slowly while it was still warm.
Nobody handed me their empty plate.
Nobody asked me for more ice.
At the reunion, Eleanor had given me exactly two choices. Sit down and apologize, or leave.
I had left.
What none of them understood, sitting there laughing beside that silver lake, was what I’d be taking with me when I went. My money. My protection. My silence. My whole future.
They noticed the empty chair.
But by the time they truly understood what it meant, I was already gone.
And for the first time in nine years, I had a seat at the table.
