She has been for a decade.

She did not come alone. She brought two officers, and the door was opened, and I walked out into my own living room in front of thirty guests without anyone raising their voice.

I did not press the assault charge. I pressed the theft, because I wanted it on paper that I was not confused and not imagining things, and the bank statements showed nineteen thousand dollars over two years.

They left in November. Nathaniel writes. I read the letters. I answered the fourth one, which was the first that did not ask me for anything.

Ilse comes for dinner on Tuesdays. She is seventy nine and drives too fast and tells me so herself.

The apron is folded in a drawer. I do not need the phone in it anymore, but I have not taken it out either, because it reminds me that I once had the sense to prepare for a night I prayed would never arrive.

I spent one hour on a concrete floor being told I was a problem in my own home. I have spent every day since being a woman who knew exactly who to call, and there is nothing confused about that at all.