Not the tense quiet that follows a fight.
Not the careful quiet of waiting for someone else’s next demand.
It was ordinary quiet.
Safe quiet.
My notebook was still in the bag I had carried inside on closing day.
I opened it to the first page and wrote the date.
For several minutes, I could not decide what my first sentence should be.
I had imagined writing about the ocean, the drive, or the feeling of holding the key.
Instead, I wrote the truth.
This is the first place I have ever owned where love is welcome, but entitlement is not.
Then I closed the notebook, turned off the lights, and slept with the windows open.
