The water service followed, then the internet, then the home insurance premium. Michael never asked directly. He’d just mention casually that money was tight, that things were expensive, that they were doing their best but sometimes it was hard—and I’d step in.
Every time I looked at my list, now covering three full pages in my neat handwriting, each line represented money I’d spent. Yes. But more than that, it represented a piece of myself I’d given away while believing I was building something: a family, a home, a place where I mattered.
I set down my pen and flexed my fingers, looking at the blue folder with its diminishing stack of receipts still to go through.
But I had enough.
More than enough.
The afternoon sun was slanting through my bedroom window now, warm and golden. I checked the time: 2:30. I’d been at this for hours. My stomach rumbled quietly, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since that early cup of coffee.
I gathered my papers, tucked them back into the folder along with the receipts, and stood up. My knees protested, stiff from sitting so long, but I made my way downstairs.
The kitchen felt different now—not sad, not angry. Just neutral. A space I was moving through rather than living in.
I opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. Amanda kept it well organized, everything labeled and arranged by category. My eyes landed on a can of pumpkin purée, pushed toward the back.
Pumpkin pie, my favorite.
I’d planned to make three of them today. One for dinner, one for Michael to take to work next week, one to send home with my grandchildren. That had been the plan, back when I thought I’d be spending today surrounded by family.
Now, I decided I’d make just one. A small one. For me.
I pulled out the ingredients, setting them on the counter one by one. Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Cream. The spices—cinnamon and nutmeg and ginger—their containers worn from years of use. My hands moved through the familiar motions: mixing the dough, rolling it out, pressing it into the pie tin. The filling came together easily, smooth and fragrant.
As I slid the pie into the oven and set the timer, the kitchen filled with the scent of baking spices—rich and comforting, and entirely mine.
I poured myself a glass of water and sat at the table, watching through the oven door as the pie began to set, its edges turning golden. For the first time in three years, I was cooking just for myself. Not thinking about whether Michael would want seconds, or if Amanda preferred less cinnamon, or if the grandkids would eat their vegetables if I promised them dessert.
Just me, my pie, my kitchen, my choice.
When the timer went off, I pulled the pie out and set it on the cooling rack. It looked perfect—the filling set just right, the crust flaky and golden brown. I didn’t wait for it to cool completely. I cut myself a generous slice, plated it, and carried it to the table.
The first bite was still warm, melting on my tongue with all those familiar flavors—sweet and spiced and perfect. I ate slowly, savoring every bite. And when I was done, I felt full in a way I hadn’t in a long time.
Not just my stomach.
Something deeper.
That night, I slept soundly. No tossing. No waking at odd hours. No lying in the dark wondering if I’d done enough, been enough, given enough.
Just deep, peaceful sleep.
Because tomorrow, everything was going to change.
I woke up Friday morning at 5:30, just like always. But unlike every other morning in this house, I felt energized—ready. I showered, dressed in comfortable clothes, and went downstairs to make breakfast, a proper one: scrambled eggs, toast, a fresh pot of coffee.
While I ate, I reviewed my list one more time, checking it against the receipts still spread across the table. Everything was in order.
At 7:30, I heard the truck pull into the driveway.
I looked out the window and saw a large white moving van with blue lettering on the side. Three men climbed out, all young, probably in their twenties or thirties. They wore matching blue shirts and work gloves.
I’d made cookies the night before—after my pie, chocolate chip, because they’re easy and everyone likes them. I arranged them on a plate and put on a fresh pot of coffee, then opened the front door before they could knock.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling warmly. “You must be from Prestige Moving.”
The tallest one, with sandy hair and a kind face, stepped forward. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Jason. This is Marcus and Tyler. We’re here for your move.”
“Wonderful. Please come in. I’ve made coffee and cookies. You’ll need your energy today.”
They exchanged glances, probably surprised to be greeted with refreshments at eight in the morning on Thanksgiving, but they followed me inside, wiping their feet carefully on the mat.
“This is very kind of you,” Jason said, accepting a cup of coffee. “Most people are usually stressed on moving day.”
“Oh, I’m not stressed at all,” I said pleasantly. “I’ve been planning this very carefully.”
Tyler, the youngest, with freckles scattered across his nose, took a cookie and bit into it. His eyes widened.
“These are really good, ma’am.”
“Thank you, dear. My late husband always said my chocolate chip cookies were the best he’d ever tasted.”
I set down the plate and picked up my folder.
“Now, let me explain how this is going to work. I have a list of items to be moved, and I have receipts for each one. I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
Jason set down his coffee cup, suddenly more business-like. “Receipts?”
“Yes. You see, everything we’ll be moving today belongs to me. I purchased it all myself. I just want to be thorough so there’s no confusion.”
I handed him the list and he scanned it, his eyebrows rising slightly as he read.
“This is quite a lot of furniture and appliances.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve been generous over the years.” I smiled softly. “But now it’s time for these things to come with me to my new place.”
Marcus, who had been quiet until now, looked around the living room. “So, we’re taking the TV, the couch, the tables… everything in here?”
“Everything on the list,” I confirmed. “Would you like to see the receipts as we go? I find it helps to be organized.”
Jason looked at me for a long moment, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He was smart enough to understand that this wasn’t a typical moving job. But I’d been nothing but polite, had all my documentation ready, and was clearly in complete control of the situation.
“That won’t be necessary, ma’am,” he said finally. “If you say it’s yours, that’s good enough for us. We just move what you tell us to move.”
“Perfect. Let’s start with the living room, shall we?”
