At five in the morning, exactly one month after my divorce became final, my former mother-in-law called and ordered me to cook dinner for nearly thirty guests.

For a few confused seconds, I thought I was still living inside the Miller estate.

Still waking before sunrise.

Still standing barefoot on the freezing basement-kitchen floor while Beatrice listed everything she expected me to prepare before the rest of the family woke.

Then I opened my eyes.

Beige curtains.

Small apartment.

Quiet bedroom.

No Brian beside me.

No Beatrice upstairs waiting with another list.

I was divorced.

Free.

Apparently, Beatrice had forgotten.

I answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Her voice came sharp and impatient.

“Samantha, finally. I need you at the house by five-thirty.”

I stared at the ceiling.

“Excuse me. Who is this?”

The silence that followed was almost beautiful.

“What do you mean, who is this? It’s Beatrice!”

“Oh.”

I sat up.