I was filing for divorce from Luke. It was May 15, exactly six months since I had closed on Gran’s house and officially established residency in Ohio. My appointment with my attorney was later that morning. I sprang out of bed, dressed quickly, and tucked Ben’s letter, folded into a manageable square, in my bra. Maybe that sounded weird, but I wanted it close to my heart. I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t see any geometric outline through my rhubarb-colored T-shirt, so it was all good. When I arrived at the bakery at dawn, Norb was baking sugar cookies shaped like spring flower baskets that Jett would decorate for a special order when she came in that afternoon. “Everything’s coming up roses, Norb,” I said. “If you say so.” Norb was a man of few words, a person who liked routine. Lining trays with parchment paper, arranging these nonspreading cookies so they were exactly one inch apart, sliding the tray into the oven with the same smooth motion.
